a white faith, a black heart, a finite shadow

Words will fail me if I try to describe the next piece I am about to post....so I will not try, if I could I would keep myself without words for the rest of the days, I would keep myself away from the light, for the light might show me something new, and more beautiful and I might forget this one, if I could I would not wake up, because I will be dreaming about it all my nights, and if I could I would want all my days to be nights like this......I have already spoken too much, no more.

"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

About what they call Love, another aberration if you aske me

Many words were planned, many of them never saw the light of existence, many of them fell by the wayside, some made their way through, some were beaten back, and all of them wanted to say what the next constellation of their counterparts say :

"Clifford married Connie. It was the terrible year of 1917, and they were intimate as two people who stayed together as a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he married; and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close , he and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's 'satisfaction'. Clifford anyhow was not just keen on his 'satisfaction', as so many men seemed to be. No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And sex was merely an accident......"

Lady Chatterly's Lover
D.H. Lawrence