definitely! i’m looking through all your work now—it’s poetic but has a modern flare that is so easy to connect with! i’m inspired and in awe dude!
“In the end, everyone is aware of this: nobody keeps any of what he has, and life is only a borrowing of bones.”— Pablo Neruda, from “October Fullness”
“My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.”— Pablo Neruda, from Poem XX (tr. by A.S. Kline); Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924.
Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, ‘The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.‘The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.by Pablo Neruda
((this shit is sad as fuck pablo))
There’s this weight in your chest.
It isn’t your heart, no–your heart has been torn apart and its pieces are weightless, shredded, and discarded on the floor. Your loss stains the roof of your mouth. Blood stains the split in your lip–the lip you bit so hard to keep from screaming an incessant slew of apologies.
Of course, the apology is meant in earnest–but you’re more sorry that you hurt him.
Not for saying goodbye, not for letting go.
This weight is heavy.
Paralyzing.
The extent of it is so surreal it’s hard to remember what you felt like before.
Before is a concept you can’t hold onto anymore. No matter how hard you try, it slips through your fingers and leaves you feeling…empty.
Save for the stone that holds you underwater and drowns the parts of you that have been smothered for so long.
You’ve lost yourself. You can’t find the person you are meant to be, want to be.
Supposed to be.
