Undara (Part One)

Am I a page in your book, collecting dust on a shelf? Do you show me off like embroidery, hanging on a delicate piece of string? Does my love bloom with the jacaranda trees in September? Do you look for me, in crowds, the same way that I do? Do you come here alone? Do you come here often? Sit with me alone, together.

Do you regret me on your skin? Know that you have forever changed mine, tattooed on my heart. A heart that has learned how to love in ways that I couldn’t show you. A heart that will love again, embraced by someone new.

There is only so much that distance can say, the space in between gets colder and more distorted. If the space got warmer and smaller, I don’t think I could be out in the cold again. I sit here, can’t see you, touch you, spend time with you, I don’t speak to you; I sit still.

New Year’s Eve, when Mila at those Tim Tams, nights at hotpot, the nights we’d dance, nights I’d never want to end, laying on the floor in your arms, watching you and your sister dye your hair, the smell of your apartment, sitting on a kitchen bench, the way you danced, hot showers, watching you dress, watching you undress, your eyes, your laugh, your lips, the mole on your eyebrow, your voice, the way you’d make me laugh, the love you show to everyone around you, your loyalty, your stubbornness, your parent’s house, your hometown, your extended family, you showed me what I never knew I needed. I made one myself, learning from you. I could never repay you for that. Your dog, the way you kept pancakes in the oven to keep them warm, your beautiful mind.

I still keep that embroidery you made for me, I still play Harry’s House and think of you, and I will still wear your Joy Division t-shirt. One day I want to let go of these souvenirs, but today is not that day.