I sing poems. I write them at the back of paper bags in airplanes, the ones where you’re supposed to vomit into. Perhaps where my poetry rightfully belongs. I sing poems. I write them all over brown envelopes, the ones where you’re supposed to insert graduate school requirements. Brown envelopes indeed have better purpose. I learnt, being outside graduate school for Philosophy and living my ordinary nine lives with it. I sing poems. I write them at midnight. I record them in the tiny bathrooms of cheap hotels. Acoustics was great but the here-and-now wasn’t. I have to whisper-sing because loud sex noise of undeserved neighbours is more important. I sing poems. I figure out the guitar chords in airports, sitting on floors, waiting for late flights. I sing poems and I sing them for one person. All these misadventures, all for one person. And that one person is not even myself. That is how you love.