Here I Love You

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 twilight.
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.

~ Pablo Neruda ~
Here I Love You, 1959

You, Bloody Bus Number Twenty-Two

You!
You came out of the blue.
You, bloody Bus Number 22.
When here I was, content to wait for Number 57.

I thought I knew which way I was going
So sure of the road I wanted to travel
Even if it was only still in theory.
And so I was happy to wait for Number 57.

Then you came by
And showed me what your route might've been.
A tiny, tiny little peek at your sumptuous secrets,
And I wondered about Number 57.

What spirit you inspired,
What dreams you caressed,
What promises of delights you held,
And I wondered about Number 57.

Should I bide?
Should I take the risk?
Tempted was I, to take that step into the new unknown
And to forsake Number 57.

But before your doors even opened,
You pulled away.
And I was left with regrets
Of what never was
Of what might have been
Of, perhaps, my own imagining.

And I stood there,
Cold,
Wondering about you
Bloody Bus Number Twenty-two.

Truth

I wrote something today.

I wrote something wicked. 

I wrote something.. true. 

But I'm afraid of what the payment for that Truth will be.

You! You were but the briefest flicker in my life,

But a spark that flared bright. 

Irresistably bright.

You've inspired me to write again; did you know?

But right now, I'm not sure that is the best of things. 

How can it be that I miss you already, when I barely know you? 

But I do.

So very much.