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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.

—Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets, Sonnet XVII,  1960 (via bookmania)

You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.

—Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter (via feellng)

(via beeerbuddbitches)