If I was Pablo in a feeling, I would assert love,
I would cry fever—one begonia, three dreams.
If I was Neruda in my emotion, I would emote
Until it hurt, I would move through screams.
We borrow topaz to jog memories—such sweet
Dying, to believe love could never be so intense.
Growing weaker, akin to some valid curse, to
Adore like fire, to burn inside, more of one pence.
If I were Pablo moving through marsh, unbuilding
Walls, kneading warmth, to have adored at breath.
If I were Neruda in her gaze, blessed in a flower—
With knowing courage, to cling to one kiss at death.
We pay to feel where some dwelt, such rosy pain,
To hear long into winds, a fret, a feeling of flame.
