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swooning under the carpet
of love and not love
of emotions and none emotions
crashing under the rug of desire
or faltering under the feet of denial

fumbling all over
your heart so full of carelessness
of stepping out or being stepped at
of being conscious or being ridiculous
of love and the so-called love
of you yesterday and of you now
i wonder whom did i loved the most somehow

between love and hatred
of being impassioned or angered
i wonder how i ever made it
in times and in places
between right and wrong
i swoon underneath the mat
of love and not love
of being in love and being in love with you

Pablo Neruda is love.

One day i shall write something here in this space that is somewhat more directly related to my life. But for now isn't that just beautiful!

Do thoughts of love fall
into extinct volcanoes?

Is a crater an act of vengeance
or a punishment of the earth?

With which stars do they go on speaking,
the rivers that never reach the sea?

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