A Lesson on Forgetting

Do not obsess, dear one
over the loss of a friend, a love, a young or old face

Let your eyes rest from seeking them out
You will not see them
Let your ears, again, find solace in near sounds
The voices they long for will not be heard

Do not obsess, poor heart
Over words misspoken, mistakes, missteps or misunderstandings

Your heart only decided over matters that were already made
Feet carried you over paths trailing for their sake
And stopped where awaiting tents were pitched before you came

Do not obsess, dear one
over the loss of a friend, a love, a young or old face

Slowly, with kindness, knead the longing out of your fingers
Teach them to forget the wrinkles over which they lingered

Love Sonnet XVII

One day I will find you and you will have this written on a crumpled but carefully folded piece of paper that will be in your back pocket. And when we greet each other your hand will reach for the paper and, as carefully and gently as it was folded, you will unfold it and recite the following:

Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

If this were the only thing you could say and give to me, then I would be happy. We could depart with love, still in love. I would live loving you secretly - in the space between two thoughts, heartbeats and words.