By Dina Oktaviani
this is just a short story
about all the things that did not happen
when i walked back into the burnt down room
the stretching bed
in a strange gaze
the four flesh of seasons that grew
in my lips and his
there was no longer somebody crying in the chair
nor anyone kneeling full of love on this floor
there was no hard pounding on the door
nor the mist of someone’s breath on that window pane
there was no sadness nor beauty
it was just memory then
even though so swiftly my heart was slipping
i had not turned my back on anything
when all the episodes were passing by
the black chair was still by the window
— the only thing left after this heart
i felt it was staring at me, it was dull
but i had understood
being alone one could not be at a loss