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I am not Pablo Neruda.

I like for you to be still, as though you were absent. To place my sadness up to the sky, and let it fall on me, but turn to see you, and let that serve as my sheath, that warmth. I like you as the night, with its stars and constellations, something I identify with--but providing me with a sense of awe, an inspiration. I like for you to be still, but I am not Pablo Neruda, you silly boy.

Sometimes I find even my soul is wet, and I am still breathless as my eyes swoon over you. My flesh knows not what it feels, yet in my weak little heart, it seems you have built a mecca out of a sewer. For a moment, I am speechless. For a moment, every tired word and passive action communicates in Russian.. so foreign... so natural though? But even if I wanted, I am not Pablo Neruda, and for this, I still can not find the words to describe how you make me feel.

The light wraps you; and I have never seen a boy with even his silliest words sound as profound as a renaissance in a culture left unknown. The light shapes you in every way I imagine perfect. Some inherent nature you possess. Something that even my wildest conjectures could not explain. But I am not Pablo Neruda.

And why would I want to be Pablo Neruda? Why? Why articulate every crevice of my heart--who would want that? I am not Pablo Neruda, and I am pleased.

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