araha’s vomitingwords

It’s not a fleeting ache, but a profound, marrow-burning longing that presses against my very bones.

I’m like a diver fixed beneath the surface, my lungs blooming with the absence of air, tasting the memory of it as a mythical experience, enveloped in the shroud of your silence.

Every cell in my body remembers you like dry land dreams of storms, each drop a miracle, a whisper against cracked lips.

I hold my missing like a hymn, a litany of breaths withheld, my chest a cathedral echoing with the ghosts of laughter we left behind.

The ache is not quiet; it’s a chorus of drowning voices, singing for dawn while night swallows their song. I’m stitched together by what’s lost, each heartbeat a bell still tolling your name.

The light flickers above me, just out of reach, and I remember…how ordinary air once was, how simple your touch.

Now, every moment apart is a tide that drags me further from the shore of myself, and I become salt, spread thin upon the waves, adrift in the longing for breath.

To miss you is to become the sailor who follows the North Star but never reaches home; to be the mountain holding its breath for the weight of snow sheer enough to break winter’s silence; to be cast out of Eden, forever remembering the taste of fruit, the clarity of light, the easy grace of being seen.

I'd say yes. But if you ask me again,

I'd say my love for you is immutable.

It's how everything is better when you're a part of it.

In that other life, the slightly slower and dimmer one, I would have likely been a writer.

I would have sat up in corner side cafes, trying to pen you into existence.

I would have not known you, but I would have still known that I was missing something.

A part of me that would have made me a little more whole and together.

So, I would write and pen the idea of you to paper, in hopes that you might form out of ink and our story might begin.

Of course, I would be happy in this life. I would have friends to laugh with and complain about how much or too little work I’m getting.

I would live in a small apartment overlooking the river, filled with books and faded denim, in a desperate attempt to look far more interesting than I am.

“laut selalu datang, setiap hari, membelai, mencium, memeluk... seolah setia. tapi justru dari sentuhan yang sama, dari gelombang yang ia banggakan, karang pelan-pelan terkikis. bukan karena benci, tapi karena terlalu dicintai.”

“jadi laut itu jahat?”

“nggak. kadang cinta cuma nggak sadar kalau caranya merawat itu justru menghancurkan.”

“dan karang cuma diam, ya?”

“iya. karena dia pikir, kalau ini bentuk sayangnya, Biarkan saja? padahal, pelukan yang salah bisa jadi penyebab retakan paling lara.”

“pada akhirnya?”

Benar kata mereka, sosok yang paling kuat memikat jiwamu adalah dia yang langkahnya selalu menjauh dari jangkauanmu.

kita bertemu tanpa rencana, tanpa sapaan,

tanpa perlu menyebut nama. cukup seperti dua orang asing

yang kebetulan lewat di jalan yang sama,

lalu dunia berhenti sebentar agar mataku bisa memastikan

kau masih ada di bawah langit yang sama denganku.

tidak perlu kembali,

tidak perlu menjelaskan apa pun

Or is this just a thing we both have tattooed on our lips?

How long until we forget about each other?

Or is this a thing that we will always have a Muse about?

I mean, we gotta figure this out, huh?

There's a journal somewhere in a landfill with your name written in it thousands of times.

But I lost it when I moved.

Or maybe we don't even need to figure this out.

Emotions make art better. Or so they say.

So how long until we forget about each other?

Will we be on our deathbeds in different places,

but at the same time, with each other in our minds?

Hoping the other will be in the afterlife to continue the tension?

Will our partners feel it in bed?

The lack of connection?

I suppose I should stop asking questions. But

Lord knows there's no answer.

Cause it's weird.

This is something we have a mediator on,

and yet we act as if the other's dead.

so I can't stop asking questions.

How long until we forget?

Howling into the Harvest Moon and crying at the summer sunset every year?

How must we accept this? You've tattooed my skin

and I yours.

You found your way between my synapses,

and yet you pretend this isn't the case.

Perhaps the story of Goldilocks was written about us.

So how long.

How long can we keep it in and pretend it's gone?

I thought I was done asking questions,

but I guess not.

No matter how things ended, I'Il always hope you find the kind of happiness that fills your heart.

Please take care of yourself, stay healthy; and don't forget to love who you are even on the hard days.

I'll never forget the memories we made, they'll always hold a soft place in me.

Suara burung datang seperti bisik yang jauh,

dan cahaya tipis menelusup lewat celah tirai.

“Aku ingin terbangun pada sebuah matahari terbit,” katanya pelan,

“yang tidak lagi berarti satu hari lagi untuk bertahan hidup.”

Ucapannya melayang, jatuh ke udara kamar

yang terasa terlalu luas untuk satu orang.

Jam di dinding berdetak tanpa rasa bersalah.

Ia menatapnya, lalu menunduk,

mendengar detik-detik itu menetes seperti hujan yang tak kunjung reda.

Matahari, pikirnya, selalu datang tanpa tanya.

Namun baginya, setiap cahaya

hanya tanda bahwa beban akan kembali dipikul.

“Apakah hanya aku,” gumamnya,

“yang diam-diam menginginkan hidup yang teduh?

Hidup yang berjalan alami,

yang tenang seperti daun jatuh di halaman.”

Ia berdiri di dekat jendela,

mencoba menebak rasa damai dari langit yang baru.

Tak ada jawaban, hanya siluet pohon

yang bergoyang pelan,

seolah ikut menahan rahasia.

“Kau tahu betapa aku mencintai matahari,” bisiknya,

“tapi belakangan aku tidur terlalu lama,

dan tetap saja itu tak cukup.

Tidur panjang, tapi bangun tetap letih—

seolah keindahan sebuah hari baru

telah pergi tanpa pamit.”

Ia menutup mata.

Dalam kegelapan di balik kelopak,

ia mencari jejak rasa yang dulu pernah singgah:

rasa sederhana bahwa esok adalah janji,

bukan sekadar tugas untuk bertahan.

Di luar sana, matahari terus naik,

diam, tak peduli.

Dan ia tetap berdiri,

mencoba mengingat kembali

You must choose to love in every tense.

You see, it is not enough that I love you now.

To love someone in an instant is easy.

I've loved the sun at her most vibrant.

I've loved the trees when they offer me shade.

I've loved the wind when it takes my breath away.

But love has little to do with stolen breath.

It is to love the trees in winter, when their bones are all that's left.

It is to love the sun from the moment it arrives to the moment that it sets.

So this is what I mean when I say I love you.

I mean that I love you in every moment.

And I love you for the rest.

I love you in past, present, future tense. I love you when you have everything to offer and when you have nothing left.

Every version of you that you are, from your rise to your set.