What is wrong with me?
Tonight I'm sitting in Malioboro, trying to do the impossible: freeze time.
Every day I find another way, sitting alone in a small cafe in a corner of Jogja, watching the comings and goings. I love driving in the rain.
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Watching the windshield wipers work hard to wipe away the rain, even if it's just a brief spray. That's me trying to erase memories of you. Is this why people write poetry, take photos, and press the record button on their phones?
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I once thought memories could be hidden in my own body. In growing hair, in lines on my hands, in scars.
But bodies change, hair grows, then gets cut. Wounds heal, and skin forgets. So what's left of us yesterday?
I am the finished coffee, the wet road, the headlights trying to hold on. And you are the rain that returns again and again.
Thanks You.
