To Violet

To read of another intricately written prose about a woman's love to once she called her man, never failed to bring a concealingly weeping heart and an almost teary-eyed facade. It must have been really hard for her to let go. In retrospect, through all of the years spent together, it is definitely a struggle to draw herself out of that history.

And so Violet came reading constantly that woman's posted grief. It was as if the pain was seeping through her veins. It was as if she was feeling the same way. They knew nothing of each other. They were strangers, Violet and that woman. But what could have brought Violet to feel just the same? It was a mystery. It is.

No one would ever have thought that she was invlove, oh i mean inlove.. errr, involved with that same man. There was just a mere connection of amity between Violet and that man. But she never thought, in her darkest moments, she will fall.

To Violet, who knew nothing about love..

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Sonnet XVII - Pablo Neruda

From the archives to bring you hope of your love to be discovered.

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