Slow Love in the time of speed dating

If poets have the key to know love and the leisure to unfurl the experience, then it must be a slow long ride. At least fresh, original first hand love. The kind which opens the portals of eternity. The kind which makes you write such lines-

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because--
because--I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run
together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

(that incidentally is Pablo Neruda warming up to a sonnet)

To those who write, images come from an unmapped planet to become words and phrases. To those who love, so many unrelated co incidences have to be set in motion to bring that cupid arrow to its mark. I talk of slow love because it can slip through your fingers like raw egg whites as the yellow sits and stares at the ceiling. In the constant beck and call of living, I have been that yellow...

More Neruda coming up....

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

I began to search for what love may be and found it in the last line of this sonnet.
To those in the thick and rush of living, you cant catch frames that move too fast... and love is no blur.

And finally Sonnet XI by the slow love master....

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.

Come to me Love....I am seeking you slowly on padded feet below an open heart.