intertwined

credit: @beatmyheart825

His name resembles the prayer I won't mind saying out loud. His presence smells like fresh-from-the-oven ginger bread and sweet apple pie every house serves to welcome the family member home from the run on Christmas.

And his smile, the smile that carries the beauty this whole universe has, a smile that is able to make me float around, no gravity is needed, but if there is, I wouldn't mind falling. Since it's him. It's his.

His lips parted, let my name out. The two syllables word I never thought would be this endearing. He slips out a smile in between, wishing to be captured and put inside the jar. 

Not today, boy. Not today.

"Yes?" I tilt my head and fix the gaze on him.

He insists the smile. Blame my silly mind, but I think I see the corner of his lips lifts a bit. 

"Going home already?" He strokes his hair messily, and I have this urge not to intertwine my fingers on top of his, helping him.

"Yeah, wait, no, I mean no," I shake my head and he sees me in confusion. I let out a giggle and he follows as well. "I need to do some shopping..."

"For Christmas?" he cuts off my sentence. This bastard. But soon when I realize his voice is raising excitedly and his eyes are sparkling like a little boy who is promised new toys by his parents, I’m lost.

"Yes. Why are you excited it's not like you're going to do that with me, aren't you?"

He shrugs. He pulls his arms as strengthening his bag straps. "What if I am? What if I say that I'm going to do Christmas shopping with you?"

"Seriously? Yoon Dowoon?” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. I know him, my high school mate for years and technically coworker for God knows when. We work at the same building but different company. He is not that kind of shopping guy—I mean he prefers playing games at home instead of going out, especially at nights, specifically at holiday nights. This shopping stuff just isn't his thing. “Are you expecting me to buy you video games or something?"

"No," he chuckles. I remain silent. I know he’s not done yet talking. “But you know chocopie will always do.” Then he laughs after putting an unnecessary stress in the word always.

“See, I know it,” I use a fashion magazine I’m holding to hit him and he lets out the hiss regardless how soft the hit was. I walk pass him toward the door and he walks faster trying to catch up with my steps. Seconds later, he is walking beside me.

“I’m serious, though,” he puts his skullcaps hoodie on and turns his head to me. As a reaction to his act, I murmur a soft yes and I’m not sure whether he hears that or not. But I don’t care and keep walking straight until he’s a step ahead of me and turns his body around.

I gasp and stop immediately. He is standing right in front of me, facing me, blocking my way. My height is as equal as his chest. How many years have passed again? Since when has he become taller? I can smell the perfume he's been wearing since high school. The one with citrus and masculine scent. My kind of perfume. I clear my throat and as soon as I lift my head to confront him, I see him pouting his mouth and I find myself burst into laughter a moment later.

“Hey, what the hell was that?” I asked in the middle of the laugh, one hand on my stomach and the other one cover my mouth. He can’t help but also giggle.

“I’m serious,” he says, still laughing. “I volunteer myself to do a Christmas shopping with you and a chocopie will do.” He now shows his teasing smile. "I know you're always alone."

"Look who's talking," I almost hit him using a magazine I used earlier but he was faster, he crosses his arms covering his head to chest to prevent me from hitting him. Knowing my effort will never work, I stand on my toes trying to reach for his skullcaps covered head to lock my another target. I know he was way taller than me because at the time I'm trying to, I find it quite hard until I lose my balance and stumble onto his broad chest. 

The scent of his perfume is the first thing I inhale, let alone the oxygen. 

Screw you, self.

Dowoon is also in shock, I can tell, but his response is always in time. He immediately grabs my arms preventing me—preventing us—from falling. We keep silent for a solid 5 seconds and during the silence, I can hear thumping heartbeats. Is it mine? Or is it his? I can never tell but feel it getting faster and faster. It sounds like the beat of drums of his favorite song to jam during his day-off to release stress after work, and I can't tell which chest is holding a concert right now.

"Knock-knock, are you still there?" Dowoon pops up the silence bubble that's covering us by patting my left shoulder. I get startled and soon enough realize that I have to get my head off his chest. Too soon. 

"I'm sorry," I mutter softly. The cold December wind breezes and I have a reason to tell myself why my cheeks are getting red. Not because of that.

He gives out a soft smile. He steps a bit closer to pats my head and fondles it softly, and I'm all ready to get down on my knees, starting to feel like melting snow at the end of the season. 

"That's alright," had I never been so sure, but his palm feels surprisingly warm on top of my head. It radiates his heat beneath me. "But you should have realized that I'm taller than you, though. How could you do that?" 

I roll my eyes. This bastard. 

An effortless hit lands on his arm. Effortlessly, yet he keeps making the hiss. "Alright alright, I'm sorry. Geez, stop hitting me, will you?"

I shake my head in disbelief but also with a small laugh as a neutralizer. We both know we can't stay mad at each other no matter what. Later on, Dowoon suddenly gets on his knees and keeps his head down while getting the skullcaps off his head. 

"Now feel free to hit my head because it's reachable now."

I blink once. Then twice.

He lifts his head up upon me. A silly smile slides from his lips, mouthing a come on. Bumping a fist on his head, he's now impersonating what a hit on the head should be like.

I blink. Thrice.

The question is, am I really going to hit his head? After all this time? He's annoying, yes, but am I really going to do that? 

Not today, boy, not today.

So instead, I incline my body an inch closer and intertwine my fingers on top of his head, fondling that messy hair. 

We're even now. 

"Come on, get up." I get my hand off top of his head and hand it to him. He looks at me with those sparkling eyes for a while. I lock my gaze on him and I can see ocean in his eyes. Deep. Serene. Endearing. The kind of ocean I wouldn't mind drowning because I know it never betrays. It's an ocean full of caress. It's an ocean made of him. 

He then reaches my hand and pulls himself to get on his feet again. "Let's have dinner first, then have chocopie as the dessert, and do your shopping stuff later. Shall we?" 

//

And in case you're wondering, no, he doesn't let go of my hand during the walk.

//

efflorescence

The time is spring when the world comes to life again after the long winter.

I am walking down the aisle with heavy steps. The smell of cherry pie from the bakery and the sound of coffee beans being shattered inside the machine are brought by the yet warm wind in April. Those scents warm my heart a little. At least I've made my mind to take a bite of that cherry pie after all this to cheer myself up. It’s April. The time of spring. New month, new season, new blooming flowers, new waffle scent, new cup of a 4 bucks coffee, new hope, new thought of hanging on for quite some time.

Sort of.

I take the right turn, then stop right in front of a flower shop. Buying myself a bundle of flowers won’t hurt. The bell rings as I enter the shop. The smell of roses comes through my nose along with the oxygen I need to inhale as a protocol to stay alive.

“Hello, dear,” a beautiful woman, I guess in her 40s, is smiling at me. Her right hand is holding a bundle of daisies. “Looking for something to welcoming this new season?”

I laugh nervously. Throwing my stare to roses which scent I exhaled earlier. “Well, yes,” I say, smiling. That awkward smile you have to make when you cannot do anything rather than smiling. “So what’s good for spring?” I ask. Her eyes meet mine. “As a remedy for this cold soul during winter that I—ah, sorry,” I gasp. I bite my lower lip to prevent the words on the tip of my tongue so they won’t be able to get out. This time, I soften my voice.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have talked too much."

The woman smiles at me. Her smile is so soft like a cotton candy. It gets me stoned and makes me think in the most envious way, do people with a smile like that still exist? Why can’t I smile like that? Is my heart really made out of stone?

She puts the daisies back to the vase, then grabs about 10 stalks of asters. She catches my stare. “Asters are good to start something new,” she starts smelling the asters. Whatever she does, even little gesture like that, is really charming in some way. She reminds me of women during Victorian Period. “You see,” now she is staring at me behind those stalks she’s holding. “They are tiny, seems fragile, yet—”

“Beautiful.” I’m sure I don’t have any problem with my hearing until I heard someone, a man to be particular, with such baritone voice, said the word beautiful the same time as the woman did. 

I gasp and turn around then spot a man standing near the front door with a guitar soft case of which strap hangs on his broad right shoulder. He steps forward, passes me, leaves the scent of fresh citrus and a smile which I translate into a “hello, excuse me, please step aside and let me walk.” And I do. I do step aside to my left and turn around again. He chooses the flowers seriously, then comes with a bundle of asters, sunflowers, and daisies, and gives them to the woman.

“I’ll take this,”

He looks for some money inside his jeans pocket busily. I almost hand him my 20 dollar. Just in case.

He finally finds his money and pays for his bundle of flowers.

“Asters, as always,” the woman says, still smiling.

He giggles. His shoulders lift a little bit, makes his guitar strap loosen from his right shoulder for an inch. He immediately strengthens his strap. I am standing behind him but I know for sure he’s smiling, like so wide. I distract myself looking at some other flowers, and sometimes still stealing a glance or two at him.

His voice reminds me of Michael Bublé's. Quite like, but not similar. His voice resembles the evening you spend on a date in an amusement park, riding merry-go-round while watching the sun sets with cotton candy in hand and soft and warm skinship in between the session. Where sweet promises of never let go as you two lock them in with a tight pinky swear spark beneath the ray of red velvety sky. He giggles like he wants to save it for the best laugh tomorrow when he watches Steve Carrel fight like kittens with Rainn Wilson in The Office. Maybe he prefers laughing out loud rather than giggling, and if so, his laughter might feel like a bag of potato chips -- crunchy and vary in taste.

“And beautiful, as always.” He takes the flowers and says thanks and praises how beautiful the flowers are politely. He then slowly turns around and walks toward the door, passes me. He’s just opened the door and rings the bell when a second after he slowly turns around again right to my direction.

“You know, I’ll always choose asters,” he lifts his flower bouquet slightly. His light and steady baritone voice fills the room. The wind breeze gets in from the gap of the door he’s persistently holding with another hand. The wind delivers the smell of flowers and cherry pie and makes his hair wobble a little.

I am too confused with a sudden statement that comes out of his mouth. I cannot proceed any words as a response. brain.exe has stopped responding, indeed.

Aren’t I supposed to say something at the time like this?

Fine.

“Okay?” Darn. Only this one comes out.

The corner of his lips lifts a bit. “But if you want to look for something nice for spring,” he sweeps his gaze to every corner of the room and ends his wander by throwing a smile--now both corner of his lips--at my 2 o’clock direction. “Over there,” he points out. I tilt my head to where he directs me to. “Tulips will do. You can add pink roses, too.”

I look at the tulips he’s pointing at. Quite purple tulips. Not bad. I turn my glance and tilt my head at him. He replies to my glance with a bright smile and a wave in the air, as if saying you’re welcome.

He turns around and this time he walks out for real. The bell rings as the door shut. I can’t get my eyes off him until he really drowns among people walking down the aisle. I sigh. I have no preference. This is my first time buying myself a bundle of flowers. Also the tulips aren’t that bad. I mean, every flower is nice, so yeah.

Should I?

I keep motionless for a few seconds before deciding the steps to my 2 o’clock direction he's just pointed at. Picks some stalks of tulips and pink roses, like what exactly he told me. Both five stalks of tulips and roses. I hand the flowers to that woman whose smile is getting softer and warmer. She seems nice. Everything in this room is nice.

“He really has a taste, no?” she asks, but more like stating a fact. Rhetorical. I respond with a smile and a nod, and a very low voice of “yes” I can barely hear myself saying this. She carefully wraps the flowers and arranges them into a beautiful bouquet. And before she finishes the wrap, a question abruptly comes off my mouth.

“Would you think,” she snaps. I'm sorry. She stops arranging and waits me to finish the line patiently. “Would you think that if I added some asters, this bouquet of flowers would look more beautiful?” 

There I say it. I know nothing about flowers. All I know is that all flowers are nice and beautiful. I just want to give myself a gift for almost surviving the hard time, though I know it won’t be ending soon in the mean time, but hey, isn't self-love important?

Asters.

The woman smiles brightly, this time softer and warmer than before. She nods then picks some asters right away. All flowers look fresh, and sure she’s a pro. It won’t take her too long to pick flowers with good condition.

She gets back to the desk and shows me the asters. White in petals and bright yellow in the middle. She asks me if I’m okay with the asters she chose. I say yes, of course. All flowers are beautiful. I love your picks. Out of nowhere, she picks some daisies and adds them to the bouquet. 

"Take it as my spring present for you," she says.

Now it's me who smiles. Fine.

As she's doing the wrapping, I hand her a verbal invitation to join me someday at the cafe upfront eating cherry pie and a cup of earl grey as a company. Counts me in, she says. I tell her my name and she replies with her name, too. Rebecca. Becky for short. It takes her about 10 minutes to finish wrapping delightfully neat. I say thank you as much as possible as I hand some money to pay for her work, and she replies with a more generous thank you. She's looking forward to joining me hanging out at the cafe upfront. 

I walk out the shop and stroll down the aisle with a beautiful bouquet in my hand. My steps are lighter than before. I can hear the birds chirping. The wind sweeps my skin gently. It doesn’t feel cold or warm. It’s somewhere in between, and it’s nice. I smell the bouquet, trying to save the fresh scent in my mind forever, and hide my bright smile behind it. I love this. This is the spring I’ve been longing for; where my strong and cold fortress finally melts slowly but surely.

Hang on, self. Who knows we are almost there for real.

lagniappe

Some things leave memories that linger. Whether it's good or bad, it's still memory. The aftertaste is not always good like sipping coffee with too much sugar in it, even though sugar is sweet. Even though everything sweet is supposed to be a good memory.

I saw many flowers the other day. Breezing wind, random fallen leaves, rain that started to pour. It might seem like an aesthetic tumblr post starter pack, but in my case, it way too much seemed like you were there. Somewhere under the solid standing tree. With a random leaf fell and landed on your shoulder within the millisecond speed. You were there. Smiling. 

I've always wanted to give you flowersーeven though you are a guyーsunflowers will do, or asters are also fair enough. Because flowers know no gender.

And I wish I knew no boundaries to always write about you. I wish I didn't have to spell your name as guilty anymore, 

This little part of me is still struggling to spell your name as an accident that always lingers. 

A beautiful accident.

Because it's so hard not to spell your name with such adjective, no matter how painful it is. 

spring

You make me wish spring would never end.

Where the warmth of beautiful sunshine peeks shyly in between the branch of old willow trees at the park with blooming azaleas around, where an old couple sitting on the bench staring at the crystal clear sky with white-breast birds tiptoeing toward them hoping to be fed.

The spring, where gentle wind blows and delivers the scent of new life, where people start planting something green and colorful on their backyard, where people switch their drinks into fresh brewed iced coffee, where flowers start to bloom beautifully, and where everything always seems warm and nice.

You make me wish I lived in any four season country.

Where I can eat ice cream and popsicles in sunny days of summer, where I can pick a fallen maple leaf and put it between the pages of Rain Chudori’s book of which a line or two reminds me of you in fall, where I can wear thick coat and walk tremulously on the snow in winter, and where I can go picnic at the park and bring my cats along to play with in spring; moreover, where it makes you near.

You make me wish what’s best for you, anytime, anywhere, anyhow, because you deserve what’s best in this entire world.

This is the least thing I can do, you know that?

You make what’s pretty become prettier.

You make grey sky become a little bluish with cotton candy clouds.

You make birds chirp a harmonious melody.

You make me wish the universe would always revolve around you, gave everything it could and made you feel better.

You make me wish the smile on yours would never fade.

You make me wish the spring would never end,

You make me think that you are forever spring.

Yet I’m still living far, far away in a two season country.

pulang

ketupat, opor ayam, dan gema takbir
selalu mengingatkanku akan pulang

masih lebaran hari ketiga,
dan aku selalu ingin buru-buru pulang ketika bepergian

mungkin pulang bagimu bukanlah implementasi
dari ketupat dan opor ayam atau uang puluhan ribu
di dalam amplop bergambar

pulang, bagimu, mungkin adalah pohon natal, dentang lonceng gereja,
dan pernak-pernik cantik
berwarna merah dan emas di penghujung tahun

namun, apapun bentuknya itu,
kuharap kau tidak lupa jalan pulang
dan tiba dengan selamat sampai di rumah

bergegaslah //

help

i need help. but i'm afraid to ask for one.

my closest always be the farthest, and the farthest always be long long farthest at the time like this.

some people would say, "seek for help." then i would answer it with a smile. i know. i would love to.

"what? what are you talking about? what help?," i will answer this instead between the painful laugh.

some people would say, "it's too bad. you should have told me earlier."

i did. i was trying to. i did. i was trying to.

"i'm sorry i didn't tell you, i'm busy coping up with my own self." lie, lie, lie, lie.

wondering what i do to make a living, whether i'm surviving or giving up, sympathizing, leaving, then forgetting, that's what people do.

people will always come at the end of the chapter, 

and i wish i lived only at the end of the chapter.

no plot twist,

no climax,

it's just an end.

pitch black

my world is all pitch black
and it's empty
all gone
long gone
for good

it's confusing
the road is all rocky and winding
and long
so long it can take you anywhere
without even showing your passport
to the immigration officers

no, my world is not a black hole
don't worry
i will not suck you in
bring you to an unknown galaxy, no

because i still need somebody
the color left
to paint a small dot using one color
other than black
and to find a way out

are you?