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