Of Love and Neruda

Love
~Pablo Neruda~

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.

I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.


I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.



Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

x x x x x

*sigh* I am like that word ... melancholy.

Last Sunday morning I awoke thinking how I was beginning to forget, forget about him; how handsome he looked, his nose and lips which I so loved; his big hands that used to cup me; the smell of his skin. I couldn't remember the little details anymore, it's as if I had succeeded in erasing him from my mind. I wanted this because his memory brings so much pain. And yet I discovered that whilst I was forgetting, the depth nor vastness of the pain did not diminish.

Then I decided to open my lappie, read some Neruda online and I bump into this one. Uncanny isn't it? I found myself in a river of tears.