Sonnet XVII

I got this via email, and I didn't recognise the sender at first:

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.  

 - Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII

But as I thought a little more, it was clear to me who'd send it; who else but her, the one with both beauty and brains, so many miles away from me at the moment, and who was cheeky and naughty enough to think of creating a new email account just to tease me thus?

The fact that she chose Pablo Neruda was a dead giveaway: she'd used a number of contemporary romantic poetry, particularly Neruda's, while she was doing her Masters degree in English Literature. It was as though she was leaving a virtual calling card via email reminding me that while we may be separated by distance, she had her way of keeping close to me.