There’s something about Pablo Neruda - I am convinced that if he were to write about something as commonplace as milk he would be able to drink in the words as milk were the only thing keeping me alive. 

So here is something I stumbled upon today. I don’t know its meaning because I don’t but it speaks something to me because he has a way where his words that seep in and work magic. Can you call poetry magic? maybe - I am. I hope you enjoy. 

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.