Every single time I almost start
I find a way to moor myself aback,
convince myself, drown in oceans of half
believed excuses. Half because they lack
 
conviction. I have tried to get beyond
the thought of you, apparitions conjured,
the aftertaste of tea fresh on your tongue,
by doing what I could've done with you
 
with others, islands almost discovered
which I christen a name both of us know
is really you. Now, I no longer feared
wide pastures of water, only before
 
I realized that after all you are
a sinking port, and I without a harbour.