It is not a poem
but how can someone want it all, and at the same time, feel troubled by it all.

There's secrets exchanged
Under the round peachy city light,
Across Gadjah Mada street

Between 4 privilege kids
Denpasar has it ways
To unite west-east-north-south at once

Here, to the feast
To the riddle of longing
To floating dilemmas
To confusing adulthood
We've been together before
Not just a narrative hunters

When the wind oppress
We are lost,
but we're not gonna lose

To you,
Where your smile meets the gaze
Of blizzard-still byways -
I'm scared of losing you somewhere along the lines.

To you,
Buried barriers trickle moonflower skies
Two years apart from being miles away -
I'm scared we'll fall when it's too late.

To you, From me,
A friend who wishes the very least,
To spend a little more chapters in your life.
I'm scared we'll be over before we even start.

it's in  the mind
of billions of stars
some make it till the end
some lose its way
be that as it may
it forges them eyes awake

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.