Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair

XVIII

Here I love you
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Usually when the cashiers ask me for my name, I make up another identity on the spot. A Julia, Nicole, Katherine, Liesl, maybe Deidre? I'm not sure how many names I call myself, I think I lost count (not that I've done it that many times and Starbucks is almost devoid here anyway) now. To not be me, to be a person made up; live for that second when the barista asks you for your name, you're wonderfully different and eclectic. Because Liesl is confident, Deidre is self-sufficient.... But yesterday, slip of the tongue, 'Cherie' I say and it becomes another generic fruit name. If I was a different person, I don't know if I'd still order Mango Passionfruit.

The other day I transferred a pile of stuff that lay from my daybed into the black box. And all my letters, trinklets, things that matter are there. In a vintage Christmas Edition Whitman's Sampler Christmas tin from a garage sale.

I was taking the train alone. So I started making a list about myself

phobia of missing the train
i totally have OCD when it comes to cleaning up (even my messy has to be a structured messiness)
i hate summer
i believe in... love, but i don't know if i should
i wished i live in europe
i have two biggest fears in life
i wish someone will write something for me

then all of a sudden, I become aware I'm making a list about myself and things I know about myself. The more I try to think, the less I come up with. Then I think what's the whole point of this list? Just some decifit, lacking, inconvenient pile of... personalities. I don't even see the whole reason why I started doing it, it became some sort of self-memo which is supposed to mirror me but it's not it's not it's not because i'm more than that, I say to myself. Then hopelessly, I'm trying to... detonate this self implosion when it dawns upon me that I am even more ordinary as I say I am. So the train stops at Southern Cross, I find out that the future is counted down by days now. here, now, every minute adds up to a day.

I spilled the Cappuccino foam all onto my fingers this morning for brunch. It became all sticky and sweet, slithery. Then I ate cold Chicken Tandoori wraps which I didn't finish anyway.