Fly this letter to Bangkok

It is 4.18pm in the afternoon in Jakarta and I am drinking. How are you? How are you holding up? I guess you are doing fine. You are probably training, or fixing the crooked mirror in your brother's apartment or picking up your niece from school.

Let me stop right here, yes, you don't need me to find out more about you. You don't want any more of my significance. Everything was over the moment you said 'thank you' at 1am in the morning, you were about to crawl up the locked gate of your host's house.

I know and I am not supposed to expect anything more from you.

But I suppose I should not obliviate the sweet memories, and neither should you. Even if you hate me.

I bottle up the night like a mystifying liquor inside a mason jar, I can only devour whenever I want to relive on our short, drunken moment.

I want to remember the way our hands tangled, and that kiss you gave me on my cheek, as I watched the rolling streets of my city.

Do you know how much I struggle to love it, my city?

That night, the buildings became my silent witnesses. The lights from the skyscrapers flickered and blinked, as if they were winking their eyes at us. Pretend lovers at the backseat, quietly gazing the half-awaken Jakarta. There were kids knocking at our windows and selling flowers, but there was absolutely nothing to be romanticised.

I liked everything about you that night.

I liked your hands, slowly undressing me. I liked the tattoos on your arms. I liked your height and your lean muscles. I liked the way the way they felt on my hand. I still remembered how your skin slid on my fingers like velvet.

I liked my slow dance on top of your body. I had never been so confident before. The day after I rose like a Pheonix from the fire,
       the fire that slow burned me into pieces.

You have made your decision to quit me.

I agree. Everything should ended by the a.m. But I get carried away by the emotional wreckage for days, for weeks.

Yet, I don't mean to victimize myself.

I am surviving this. Taking shelter out from my bedroom, to coffeehouses and company of good friends who understand my situations.

They said I have no good reason to mourn you.

I have written stuffs about you but once is never enough. This letter will take long to finish, it will take as long as I need to heal.

I am not fighting you. I agree that we are nothing more than insignificance, crossing onto each other's paths. That happens to every wanderer.

If you have different way of quitting me, so be it. I am just going to drain you, words by words, but never the memories.

Although, I am still angry for wishing you anything good. But deep down, I do wish the best for both of us.

The next time I'll see you, it would be a different feeling. A different situation.

A championship belt strapped on your hips and a big rock on my finger.  Perhaps, a new gym and a book tour. Someday, your grown-up niece and my little baby will know each other like friends.

It is 7.29pm in Jakarta.

It is getting late in the afternoon and I am having my second cup of coffee.

Still slowly but sure,

I am getting over you.


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