ribbonelle
You love and are not loved in return. And in some sick masochistic way, you're okay with that. No matter how much it hurts you, no matter how much you bleed. You know you're lying to yourself, but you choose to ignore it. You're in love with him. But you're letting him go.
Pablo Neruda
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.
