Menjaga Hati

It still smells like rain - the same thing that begins when everyone has already understood everything, but no one has said a word. Each drop seems to measure seconds of silence, where love still lives by inertia, not believing that it has already been let go.

The warmth of the past is carefully stored here, like an old letter in a box that is long overdue to be thrown away, but the hand does not rise. Let him go - nothing. Let him not look back - and it’s not scary. Someone simply remained to guard their feelings, like a lantern that is still burning at the gate, although the path to the house has long been overgrown with grass.