Tag: komorebi

The Untouchable

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Your twenty-sixth birthday went past, all the transient romances ceased, your adolescent lust turned into a hunger for a more timeless bond.

Never before you met a soul so impeccable; whimsical words born from their fingers, constant supplies of their contagious laughter radiated into the air, all the sincere goodness they touch the Earth with, their grace covered with elegance, all the exemplary qualities everyone wish to steal,

all sublimity you can barely touch. When boundaries are as high as discrepancy, bigger than numbers, stronger than faith,

all that is solely out of your reach. Even skins, even the tip of their fingers where affection is preserved for too long,

and a whole lot of other things you wish you could caress.

Are they worth the aching?

Moonlit Midnight of Men Murmuring

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1:01 AM and somewhere across her room, someone is responsible for unnecessary assumptions passing into her head.

Why, of all implausible excuses she keeps fabricating by herself, this particular one turns out to be the most provoking?

Observation doesn’t seem to be of any help. She needs to ponder. Deep. Into rooms where perception and feelings are stored for long, for she has always been way too afraid to get close by.

But the answer has always been complicated and difficult, either to translate, or to appreciate.

All she knows that some things linger. And remain. And never escape.

Gentle pats on her head, awkward arms around her, the curly edges of ivory hair blown away by the afternoon breeze,

the fairest colour of skin she has ever witnessed,

all that she saw, all that she felt because.

Slight details she would rather disremember about.

Somewhere across her room, two bodies are inside each other’s, yet it doesn’t scare her. For the only freedom she owns is her own train of thoughts, as her heart is sealed with loyalty, and her body is bounded with promises.

She just believes there’s a space for her,

always. Even between the adhered surfaces of two skins against each other that night.

She’s an remedy he wouldn’t unhand.

Not now.

Stadiums Shrines

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In a world where the fine line between white and black is sometimes undecipherable, there gets to be some time when everything becomes just clear and readable—in absence of the gray or blurred intervals. Spaces between your eyelids and that couple of brownish circles. Silvery dust flowing away from my face every time I breathe. Sheets of papers with your terrible handwriting on them.

Among things that are white, those are the ones I enjoy spending time to look at the most. Where truth be found, and things are absolute, with no transitions. Eyes that don’t hide lies, scattered dots showing where the atmosphere flows, and writings of non-fiction that are disguised in novels or fairy tales. Unlike snows that melt, the walls between our rooms that crack, or the back side of those photographs of your face which eventually turn to yellow.

Somewhere along the fine line, I can see the other side where things are all the contrary. Black, and unlit. Like the total eclipse of your heart before this story comes to life. Or the conservative mind of mine before our lives intersect.

In other word, the past before us.

iii

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Puji-puji tentang rumput yang disapa oleh kado kiriman dari langit, pipa-pipa di ujung atap rumah yang diminta bernyanyi riuh bersama anak-anak awan, rambut-rambut yang basah setelah dirangkul tanpa jeda oleh malaikat dari angkasa yang mengharap pertemuan dengan Dewi Bumi. Ruang-ruang di antara rusukku kini dihias dengan krisan dan bakung tempat kupu-kupu bermain hompimpa sehabis gilirannya kilat dan gemuruh.

Setelahnya,

diam-diam kukirim doa dan salam paling bersahaja untuk Sapardi Djoko Damono dan Cholil Mahmud yang telah berkisah tentang hujan yang sentimentil di bulan Juni dan Desember.

 

ii

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Di udara kita menyaksikan salam-salam berbungkus kertas kado keemasan beterbangan—sayapnya dari gula-gula kapas yang menguar dari uap bibirmu saat mengeja gramatika tentang utopia pada turun salju sebelum subuh—menunggu disambut tangan-tangan gadis yang ruang-ruang di antara rusuknya berisi harap-harap yang kekal mengendap.

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Heart & Soul

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At the elegiac words of your ode, even ache could be somewhat flawless. Your je ne sais quoi turns twinge into pleasure in disguise, like fading colours of daybreak in the border of the city and the sky. As fine as white and washed-out ivory, but less romantic than the contrast of urban lights and evening horizon. You define pain as if it is just a peach rosebud. A patisserie that is closed every Saturday. A loverboy two thousand miles away promising to be back home.They would eventually grow some happiness just yet, you believe.

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We don’t have beaches today

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We don’t own the white sands and beautiful corals to lie around our bare feet as well. We don’t even get to see the gulls coming back home. For today is a treat for tryst, a secret rendezvous arranged so that our longing for serenity at the shorelines wouldn’t hurt that much, because we could always share it for two. A very secret meeting that you yourself would not know you are going to attend one.

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Once upon a dusk

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Goldish afternoon creeping westward, fell on the bend of your lips. Its tangerine spots landed bashfully there, rustling the shade of your look which suddenly turned warmer. Her brain was a microfilm, portraying every millisecond of pleasing existence in front of her and quietly rescued motile gazes of your mien for later be remembered, only by herself.

Now if I still have to offer you a question,

was it a zsa-zsa-zsu?

 

When we land on a beach

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I’d love to see you in an overexposured photograph where we’re looking at the burning red of sunset and I steal a quick snap of your portrait gazing at the west. Just a dark silhouette of you. In which you don’t have to worry about the possibility that you may be looking all peculiar at that moment, because we could always disguise it in all black. In which we learn that obscurity could somehow be good if we know how to befriend them, wisely.

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