(A quickie because I’m bushed. A Pablo Neruda sonnet, suggested by my sister)

I do not love you–except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

I love you only because it’s you I love;
I hate you no end, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe the January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

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