Listen what I have got to say: Find me now. Not tomorrow or the day after. Do not wait. I have waited long enough. Although I am not lost, I want you to find me. Find me between the trees, above the ground, dirt and pebbles. You do not need to leave traces of bread in case if you get lost, I'll get lost with you. But find me first — when the daffodils bloom in the midst of cold spring, when the wave clashes to the shore, when bubbles of salt and water seeps into the sand. Find me in the least familiar place; like a tourist finding their way in a crowded traditional market of a strange city, when they bump into sweats of strangers, bizarre local language; I may be somewhere in the long process of understanding the broken English and funny accent. Or in the aghast of discovering blatant beauty far from home. I may be somewhere in between the spaces of your fingers, or your sentence. I am not lost, I am right here; building the bridge that I have burned, for you to cross once again. Find me in between your hope and regret. Find me before the sun rise, in between unguarded conversations about the future and ashes of wasted cigarette with your car's window half opened. Find me in a verse of a song that catch you in weird mood that makes you sing along or dance to it when no one is around. Find me between the time difference across the Atlantic. Find me in between the announcement of departing flight or at the arrival gate. Better yet, find me at the airport — because I can't stay. You can't stay. We can't stay. We are not here to stay. But still, find me, look for me. Find me before someone else does.
Please, Stop Looking At Me
There is something different from the way you look at me. Maybe if I can see myself when I look at you, probably I would see you differently, too. But I can feel it brushes my bones, there is something different from the way you look at me. Maybe it's because we have not seen each other in flesh for more than two good years. You are off collecting possibilities in Uncle Sam's land while I am busy having afternoon tea with the Queen. There is something different when you try to catch my face from the driver's seat. Although I do not time it, it feels like we are on freeze. It's not like you have seen me for the first time and you need to take some time to programme me all over again, it's more like you are being very cautious, as if you are afraid to make mistake in front of me; you are afraid to make me fall in love with you. There is something safe from the way you look at me. It seems like you are finally acknowledging me after all this time, though we had spent the entire senior year of high school sitting next to each other. I almost ask you to stop looking at me because I can feel the mild intensity of your eyes, quietly, seeing through me as if I was an ice cube under the spotlight of Summer's burning sun and you would like to melt, or break, me.
It is not a serious stare, or the opposite. It is enough to start a mystery. To make me wonder. You look at me as if we are on a stake, as if we have something to gamble for and we are at risk. A good risk. I'd like to shake off these thoughts because I am finally in the same space and time-zone with you and I don't want to think about the past or present — I don't want to think at all, for that matter. I cannot deny, your stare is much comfortable than the last time I saw you, which I hardly remember when. Was it two August ago when you drop me off in my apartment lobby and tried to scare me with your made-up ghost story in the elevator? Was it the time when I was pretending to be afraid just because maybe you would walk me till my front door while I hide behind your back and get closer to you? Maybe it's because I forgot how you look at me for so long; and to finally see and feel it again, raises questions in my head. That's not the look of love nor the look of hatred. Maybe that's the look of almost-love. Or maybe, that's not the look of I'm-afraid-to-make-you-fall-in-love-with-me, but instead that's the look of I'm-afraid-to-love-you-back.
The Curse of First Love
Coming home always give this certain rush of nostalgia — when things were just things, when love was just love that hit on your nerve like an anaesthetic injection sending you straight to your subconscious within the count of three. Only this took one arranged meeting. I met Charlie a couple days ago. Charlie, the tall, dark haired, good looking guy from that band whom happen to be my first love. His hair seemed longer now, it hid the colour of his eyes which was caramel-brown. And he looked older, not just that he was actually a couple years older, but much older than the last time I saw him. Regardless, he arguably, looked more attractive. That night we met again after years of absence, and I could not wait to show him that I, too, have grown older. I initiated to order a bottle of cold beer on a fervent Saturday night in the midst of crowded bar with poor air conditioning — I did not mind as long as he was there. I could feel his eyes staring at me in mere disbelief as I placed my order; probably because the last time we met I was not even legally allowed to buy an alcohol. I pulled my victory smirk, not that I know I had one, but I felt like I have just won whatever contest I was in. I was one step closer to convince him I was not the little girl that was once following him around the neighbourhood.
The night was young, he ordered another bottle of beer and a snack. I was expecting French Fries or peanuts, but the bar maid handed over a package of Indonesian spicy cheese stick like local elementary school kids used to buy in between their recess at their school canteen. There it started, the (kind of) conversation that had me fall down to the deep abyss of his everlasting charm. Conversation with him was always safe. So subtle and delicate my heart and ego would immediately swollen and sail up above the clouds like a balloon. He would say I looked thinner, he liked the way I dressed or concerned whether or not I was comfortable on my seat just because my eyes looked slightly red because of the smoke from the table next to me. He would even offer to switch place if I wanted to — I could not care less about how I look, let alone how I dressed, but the fact that he paid attention to the details of my boring eyes or my figure, pleased me. Then after an undemanding refusal, I carried on ignoring the entire universe as he filled in the space with his classic jokes, which might just sound funny to my ear. Present and future were starting to lose its matter. Therefore, I was back to square one. By the time I had to leave when the clock showed two hours passed midnight, I knew I was once again that little girl watching him playing his guitar like he was part of the seven wonders of the world.
I walked out of that bar, feeling nothing but nostalgic. He walked me outside, and gave a brief hug before we parted. Honestly, I was afraid of every touch because I was aware of his capability to drag me back to his cold arms in a jiff. I smiled, hiding what was happening in my head. He replied. Holly hell, he was even more attractive. The blue cab that brought me home, locked me in an invisible bullet-proof time vessel, as I stared blankly to the window watching Jakarta's best moment of tranquility passing by. In my head, I watched how it began and died respectively. I remember the reason why I fell in the first place on every blink, smile, joke, hit on the arm and conversation I had with him which got me thinking for a solid two seconds maybe I never stopped loving him. But then again, isn't that the thing about first love, so pure it is cursed to stay beautiful, forever? A millisecond after, I shook my head as I also remember the reason why I got out at the end. My blue cab stopped in front of my apartment lobby marking the end of the trip down memory lane. The present stood before me, softly whispered, 'Hey, you're home.'
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