This is what happens when I read Neruda's poetry. Let me know if you understand at all what is going on, because I'm not 100% sure I do.
If you're really quiet, sometimes you can hear the stars talk. You have to be almost silent, though, which is why most people don't know what they have to say.
Her skin feels like rustling leaves and her breath tastes like peppermint as it licks his ear with a hundred thousand promises and one question.
He doesn't know what to say, the constellations like each love anyone has ever had orbiting in the sky. And maybe that's tragic because stars are so infinitely stretched across time and space but maybe it's also a little happy because they're there for eons and can be seen from light-years away.
Her fingers light trails of embers down his spine and into the pit of his stomach where his whole being simmers as he waits for her lips to crash down, the tide of her love turned in his favor, the moons giving him a spot of luck.
She smells like seafoam and is made of skin, bones, and coffee grounds. But the sound of her hands in his is deafening and he can't help but miss the softness of lavender and resent the grit of sandpaper. The coolness of rivers he'd trade any day for sparks and fireworks.
He is really quiet and hears what she's saying and what the stars are saying and then, it what seems like no time at all but really could've been centuries, he's lightyears away with one hundred curses stinging his lips.
The new girl, all linen and chocolate, thyme and moon doesn't follow, but he didn't expect her to anyway.
The stars show the world's heroes and villains and these stories don't ever change. If you listen really carefully, you can hear them whispering "give up now, you'll always be what you always were." And you'll be silent a little longer because they're more right than the feeling of fingers tangled in your hair.