Messing about with Neruda

So I love this Neruda sonnet (XVII):

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

 I was sitting with a patient at work who was sleeping, so I had a pen and paper nearby--this little piece of foolery came out:

Neruda told me he did not love me.

But then said he did love me but like a plant in the dark. And also that it was a secret, and we weren’t going to talk about it. 

But I think he also said I smelt good, all of which felt weird. 

But everybody shivered unconsciously and with obvious pleasure, so there are worse things, I guess, than being loved like a ficus in an ill-lit room.

(12/8/17)