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