Sentimental Hours
 'Twas a car ride at night and old tunes from a band.    Looking out, raindrops raced on the window glass.   Houses passed, red bricks and orange lights.   Messages sent to radios, probably were never heard.       And I dreamt of becoming, but never being.       'Twas a lazy afternoon and indescribable longing.   A poem hastily scribed, of a girl    peeking from behind the curtain.    There you were, a boy of pale face,   of mismatched socks, of silly attire.   For a while you lived there, a fixture of short future.       And I dreamt of becoming, but never being.       You are a thousand things that were and never were :    The smell of bookstores, Murakami on the shelves,   Spanish Romance from a music box, withered messages in a bottle,   a smiling face on the screen, unfinished poetry written on tattered pages.        Still I only dreamt of becoming, and never being.       Bandung, 15 April 2020   Vera F. Maharani  
 
 
 
 
