To
Pablo Neruda…
Pablo,
I too, can write the saddest verses tonight…
To
have had her once and not have her.
The
joy of having her is only matched by the joy of losing her.
Like
a shooting star that burns bright
and
fades away in the night…
Pablo,
I didn’t love her. But maybe I did.
To
hold her in my arms and look into her beautiful eyes…
To
hear her whisper: I love you…
To
smell the sweetness of her breath and feel the fire in her kiss…
Pablo,
she didn’t love me. But maybe she did.
Countless
were the nights we kissed under the stars,
the heavens our blanket…
And
how our bodies responded…
And
how we became one…
Pablo,
I loved her. But maybe I didn’t.
What
ignited the flames of our passion?
Two
lonely souls, hopeless and desperate.
Two
voyagers who crossed in the desert.
Pablo,
she loved me. But maybe she didn’t.
She
gave herself to me, if only for a fleeting moment…
I
wanted her, she wanted me.
She
was never mine, I was never hers.
Pablo, I swear that I will never love again. But maybe I will.
Pedro Marenco
© Sacramento, October 5, 1996