"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."

— Pablo Neruda
*****
(I have never felt so inspired...) I have this strange desire to read all the books on my bookshelf and neglect the piles of homework laying at the foot of my bed. I have no reason as to why I am feeling this way...It might be the beautiful poems by the wonderful Neruda. I love his poetry and will always have this deep connection with each and every one of his thoughts. I wish Sam was here with me...

I haven't been feeling good lately. I've had a headache since tuesday and my body aches. I'm hoping that I don't get sick or get the swine. Haha I really don't have time to be sick...I don't think anyone can afford to be sick right now. I'm oh so busy with school, work and...I can't think of anything else that I'm busy with. Feeling sick makes me super sensitive to anything. I'm easily pissed and emotional. I get upset if someone isn't listening to what I'm saying and I begin to feel unimportant. The only people that really do listen to what I have to say are my parents. I miss my mom and dad more than ever and I call them at least three times in one day. I just finished talking to my mom five minutes ago...she make me feel better.

I love my parents. They are always there for me when I need them the most. They really are the best parents in the world.
-me

SONNET XXV

Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own:           
I wavered through the streets, among objects:    
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.

I knew rooms full of ashes,
tunnels where the moon lived,
rough warehouses that growled get lost,
questions that insisted in the sand.

Everything was empty, dead, mute,
fallen, abandoned, and decayed:
inconceivably alien, it all

belonged to someone else -- to no one:
till your beauty and your poverty
filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.

-Pablo Neruda
**there is nothing like the feeling of pablo's love poems in the morning.