Relei ingat. Baju hangat kuning kecoklatan, 4 kerutan di tangan kanan dekat siku dan 5 lainnya di dekat bahu kiri. Rok kotak-kotak selutut yang untung dan sayangnya tak pernah terisngkap sedikit pun angin berkata tiup. Adalah pakaian yang melekat di badan Malia kali mereka bertemu tatap.
Udara dingin malam Sabtu sama sekali tidak membuat para pujangga mengurungkan niatnya untuk berteriak kata cinta. Atau cerita patah hati. Mungkin iya di tempat lain, tapi tidak di sini, di 8th Avenue, sebuah ruangan tak terpakai beberapa tahun lalu yang di percantik jadi sebuah tempat pertemuan para penyair dari berbagai penghujung kota. Dengan satu podium kecil –sekitar setinggi 1 meter dan selebar tiga dada- di sebelah barat, membelakangi dinding yang berwarna merah marun sedangkan tiga dinding lainnya adalah batu bata yang tidak dipoles.
Malam itu Relei seperti malam Sabtu lainnya, berjalan dari kamar loft ke tempat favoritnya, menyusuri 6 blok dalam suhu 21 derajat dengan tentu pakaian hangat.
Semua wajah yang berpapasan, tak ada satupun yang Relei lupa. Ada 13 wanita, 8 diantaranya bermata coklat, dan 6 pria, satu diantaranya memegang setangkai bunga mawar, yang sudah bertatap sapa selama perjalanannya menuju 8th Ave. 8 bunyi klakson mobil dan 4 suara orang bersin yang selalu di balasnya dengan “semoga tuhan memberkati”. Tidak, Relei tidak selalu menghitung seperti ini dalam sehari-harinya. Hanya saja Relei selalu ingat.
“ Lalu bulan masih saja datang, pun tak sepertimu, yang malam ke malam, masih saja semakin semu.” Seorang wanita paruh baya sedang membacakan barisan terakhirnya di atas podium dengan parau sangat menghayati. Penyair lain yang ada di ruangan itu menjentikkan jari mereka terkagum, ada juga yang bersorak kata-kata manis. Kode etis dalam pembacaan puisi di 8th ave adalah : tidak perlu bertepuk tangan terlalu kencang untuk berkata bahwa kau kagum akan satu puisi, cukup dua jari saja.
“ Biarkan aku datang ke mimpi buruk mu, lalu mimpi indah mu, lalu mimpi mu yang kau bahkan tak tahu tentang apa, atau pun mengapa,” Selanjutnya adalah giliran seorang perempuan muda yang naik ke panggung. Ia bercerita tentang buah mimpi, bahwa Ia ingin menjadi fantasi yang dibawa kemanapun sang pemimpi berjalan.
Baju hangat kuning kecoklatan, 4 kerutan di tangan kanan dekat siku dan 5 lainnya di dekat bahu kiri. Malia –atau seperti itulah tadi perempuan itu memperkenalkan dirinya sebelum memulai puisi- menyisir rambutnya kebelakang kuping sebanyak 3 kali sepanjang ia membacakan puisinya. Ia bergeliat di boots hitamnya, entah karena grogi atau tidak nyaman. Malia berambut coklat ikal sepinggang, dan memiliki bulu mata yang lentik bahkan dilihat dari ujung ruangan.
“ Untukmu, yang bersandar ke bata merah dengan tangan memegang kerah.” Malia mengakhiri puisinya sambal menatap ke arah Relei. Tangan Relei yang sedang membenarkan kerah baju otomatis langsung membeku. Ia sadar penyair lain sedang mengalihkan semua perhatian mereka kepadanya. Tapi hey, ayolah, pasti bukan, gadis di atas podium itu pasti bukan sedang membicarakan tentang Relei. Gadis yang sekarang sedang menuruni tangga podium dan berjalan ke arahnya itu pasti bukan sedang- Oh tuhan, atau mungkin memang iya.

love changes
love doesn't rub my cheeks gently like love used to
love doesn't hold my hand as tight as love used to
love doesn't smile a lot these days
love's eyes are full of uncertainty
love
doesn't share his thoughts anymore
love doesn't share his favorite songs
love doesn't joke freely like before

love is still love but
love doesn't miss me when i'm away
love used to text me with “I guess you're asleep, may tomorrow you be safe, let me know when you're awake, and goodnight!” when i fell asleep and forgot to text back
love doesn't notice me as much as love did a month ago

i'm not saying love is dead but
love doesn't say love like love did
love doesn't love like love did
love gets busier
love gets fader
love thought i was joking when i said “I give up”

love won't answer my texts
love won't pick up my calls

love now walks faster than me
love now speaks in a lower tone
love is now silent
love feels awkward seeing me
love now doesn't sound as excited
and as curious
love is now not as comfortable with my presence
is it normal for love?

or maybe love is dead?
love fell asleep one day and woke up not love
wrong love
maybe love has become somebody else's love
maybe love is still love but not for my love
maybe love is still love but love is tired
maybe love is still love but love is getting tired of my love

or maybe love is just dead.


love is now more brilliant
love stands tall in love's world
love is loved by so many loves
love forgets about love's love
love thrives
love grows
alone

she will be naive for you
so when your soul has dragged itself through the mud she'll
hug you close and says it's been a long time since she has been that ***** and happy

I'm starting to think that maybe you were just born distant. Your mother held you from the furthest place that is in the hospital. And you move from place to place, but my place. Wellington and London so when you said “Baby, you feel like home to me.” it means 12,990 miles apart from each other. And sometimes you are just a dream away, though I often woke up crying. Or though most of the time i didn't wake up at all, still sleeping.
We used to talk about how lucky humans are, that they have 12,990 plus ways of saying I owe you my eternity. And how I love you is at the very bottom of the list. A ***** disgrace, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime it rings. So you can't really blame me that every single time you spit your ‘I love you’s the only way i ever wanted to reply was with an ‘I hate me too’s.
Babe,
you haven't been saying ‘drive savely’ lately so I've been causing trouble down the road. Drawing zigzags here and there, yelling “At least you don't burn like this” to a carcrash.
Babe, ask me ‘are you home yet?’ because i was never once home since the day you stopped coming home, just 12,990 miles apart from each other. and ask me if i was ever safe and i'll be looking at you with my confused face and say “i'm in a war how can i be safe?”.
And sometimes you are just a dream away, barely hanging with the hollowness it brings everytime you ring.

this is not a goodbye,
this is my death, the epitome of my burried-7ft-under-the-ground
naive with both eyes wide ******* open
this, i said, is not a goodbye
this is my war, another version of daily sword cry between my body and the body of my body
both bleeding, both pleading
this, my friend, is never what a goodbye should look like
this is just me, hanging, begging, knocking and crawling,
just another tv show about breaking plates, or lost planes, or abandoned planets
just another boring 195 minutes episode of empty asylums, dry lips, and false alarms

or this is
the paragon of your goodbye,
alongside with my everyday asked question of “so what comes after death?”
or “how many nights was it my mom cried after the divorce?”
or “how do two souls that used to see each other bare drift away with full armor of clothes?”
or how much more do i have to pour, because i have dried all of my words, and metaphor,
there's only so many ways of describing how it feels like to be destroyed

(but this is time for me too to realize that without a goodbye, it's still
you
and me going straight back to
0
or -1
or -100)

i understand so this is your way of saying goodbye ; not even saying it at all
so there was no closure
just me left confused in a never ending roller coaster ride
so this is your way of saying goodbye ; you ******* erased the word 'good' out of it

You wrote your name in invisible ink,
For you were so afraid of what he might think.
But the scars he left, they were loud and clear,
Weren't they? weren't they?

When it's too much to bare, memories erase.
A disappearing act, deserving of our thanks.
When it surfaces, just hold your breath
And sink. Just, sink.

You begged and begged for some kind of change:
Maybe they'd wake up tomorrow and regret the pain
That they've passed down to you like DNA,
But no luck, no luck.

It seems only by the hand of God or death,
Will they truly change their silhouettes.
For a miracle or a consequence,
You wait and wait
And wait
And wait....

… maybe distance is the only cure?
Far away from hurt is where healing occurs.
Or maybe it's where the catastrophe collapses.
But all you really want to do is make them proud,
Don't you? don't you?

It must be so hard, in the mess you're always cleaning up,
To believe in the ghost of a broken love.
But i promise you,
you are right
she's loved
she's loved.

you're wrong
she is not understanding
she is of gigantic question marks and
she sleeps on a bone-numbing hard mattress of whys
she is in the sweat-breaking comfort of her lover's hold but she never told anyone how she made a commitment with a what ifs two years ago

you're very wrong
she is neither calm or kind
you can't really call a crying hurricane a calm and kind thing
her facade is smiling with a turbulent anger
but never to anyone, only her own
and she never leaves anyone's home without a gentle au revoir
but her room is just an empty, vacant loony bin
you can't really call a ghost a living thing

white lips and lilies, i don't think we're working whole. it's not just a soft said goodbye but a lullaby. one, two, three, i don't know what really happened, four five six? your car suddenly drove away from my driveway but it's still december. is your friend okay? don't worry, he'll cry and die and be okay. my mind is a juvenile, you see, it's a natural highway silly born June six done, you see. bipolar is not a joke, it's the clown! more of the more, more pain, please? lots of people said that kisses are define things but we kissed with our knuckles white and eyes wide open. why, ___ ? i almost write your name but i'm asleep don't wake me up don't wake me up don't wake me everytime a chime can be heard, i almost said "let's be real, our ocean is turning dry." flowers are nice. you see, i was not screaming. i'm saying no i am done, clouds, thanks. this is enough. i've been running from this one boy, you see, he throw me a really lot affections in every form, but i'm crying and my tears are two four three diamonds no him another boy 21 no 22 no 70. lots of things are free you see but not your time, please love me back please love me i'm begging disgusting silly driveway my friend said you're crazy i am not i'm define and serene no i am not 21 22 16, i'm 16, and i'm done, clouds, thanks, i was screaming. clouds, i love you but i'm 4feet under the ground, and i'm define. i'm done.

one day you will
find a girl who will scoop you whole
she will expand her arms knowing the giant that you are
and not feel tired holding it
she will tame the seas inside of you,
and hush the demon that is in you
one day
you will
find a girl who will nurture you true
she will bend low knowing **** well the hobbit that you are
and not feel little standing beside it
she will tuck your hair
out of your face
and say
she is staying
she is staying
you are not something for her to leave
and she will make a bed out of you
knowing she can make a throne out of someone new
but
she will make
a tiny
lovely warm bed
out of you
and she'll stay
she'll stay


don't leave her

i've been waking up smiling some of these days
school things are inevitable but it's lovely how i can do what i love while doing so.
i laughed a lot, smiled to every people i met on the street, god knows if they are going to be one of the chapters on my book someday.
i make new things, i grow myself a garden, i surround myself with lovable people, people who make jokes, people who hugs me lots, people who makes me feel a bit safer than being alone.
some of these days i even thought that i'm going to be fine aftermath, that i've forgotten how your hands felt like on the glove of my right hand, that i've suffered enough and this is my time to be okay, finally.
and this little blue bird told me to be happy, to know my worth and walk away, and that being okay will make you feel a little burst in your heart, that you'll regret, that you will not feel okay. i was told that what i pretend is what i will be. and that by showing you that i'm happy will **** you a bit slowly.
but i'm tired of pretending,
i'm tired of holding back tears,
i'm tired of smiling and holding back my tears,
i'm tired of the look on my friend's face everytime i said “i am finally happy”, because god they know i'm a bad liar
i'm tired
of pretending
i understand, that what i pretend is what i will be, and if i say that i'm happy there will come a day when my mind will finally believe me.
i've been saying “i'm happy” so much i'm not sure anymore my name is still the one my mother gave me.
there are some people who have been trying to hold my hand, you see, to ease the pain and make it less empty, but the burn marks on my right hand you left behind won't go away that easily.
the wound on my right shoulder is still gaping wide open.
and most of these nights i still wake up screaming your name, and your face, it's still framed beautifully on my black walls of dreams, still not going down the drain.
i understand, you're a fast track plane without a rear view mirror. you're not coming back. but please spare me, i can't help it that i'm still walking like a baby
i'm tired
and i don't understand
why the only one i'm killing with this happiness is
none other than me.