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Neruda on love

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. 

So says Pablo Neruda.

Some days, I miss your perfume. Other days, I wish I never knew what it was. So long, oh albatross of mine (if I may mix a Coleridge metaphor with a Neruda one), for I am finally free of thy curse.
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Location: Vancouver, BC, Canada

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