I Do Not Love You — Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda

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He begins by telling us what this love is not. Not roses. Not fire. Not any of the bright, showy things love is usually compared to. Instead Pablo Neruda reaches downward — into soil, shadow, and secret. Into a love so deep it has no name for itself, no origin, no explanation.

And then, in the final lines, something extraordinary happens. The border between two people simply vanishes. Not in a dramatic dissolution, but in the quietest possible way — a hand on a chest that becomes your own hand, eyes that close as another falls asleep. This is what Neruda means by love: not possession, not passion, but a merging so complete that the word "I" loses its edges.

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Sonnet XVII

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 · Translated by Stephen Tapscott

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