Road
I have opened an unfamiliar door,
The most foreign Jakarta that mother ever told me in a bedtime story.
a city with winding bridges connecting many things.
then the river, where children swim all day.
does it still have an upstream, at least to go home once.
The market continues to be busy in the dark night,
the shophouse continues to peddle words of the heart.
the street lights occasionally dim,
letting the sidewalk miss the direction of the wind.
The mailman comes and goes, sending a mother's package from a land across the way.
her child still doesn't reply to the SMS,
the immigration offices close their bodies as tightly as possible.
who should I ask?
the warm remaining park chair from the two young people is silent, enduring the cold.
let alone the old buses that retired before being split,
they silently remember the damaged roads.
I have already taken 1740 steps around this land,
but I still haven't found Jakarta.
the smell of his sweat still lingers on the edge of my nose.
his signature spilled on my shirt.
is he still there? or should i just go home?
Giving up looking for him.