Ubud, 2019

As if the ukulele seller at the crossroads, across the market hasn't stopped playing since i was here last year. The secondhand bookstore in the hostel alley is still the most wonderful sight on my walk back at 1 AM. 

As if the seat facing the road at the second story of Coffee & Co has always been reserved for me. But Seetha is next to me writing. Once a while she looks up and says, "I love this. I love what i write. This is a good life", takes one sip of her Iced Cappuccino and goes back on writing.

As if Pering's owner keeps the lower bunk next to the door empty because it was exactly where i slept in, 2018. And again, now. The chattering of the school kids next door is still as loud. But Cuba slams the door every 9AM, i will pull my curtain with eyes half opened and ask him to tell me which warung i should go to for lunch that day. Every single morning.

The purple lit stage of Betelnut is still in the same shade and i always get into their toilet booth with broken lock like a habit. The lock is still broken.

Mbok Ami still waits the doors, still witty with a held back laugh, still can't remember my name. Bu Tara does, in her memory I'm "the girl with uniqlo shirt" but it is enough. As if I've never left.

But strangers hold my poem like a newborn child and i learn to say thank you to compliments instead of curling into compromise. 

Kak Sakun and Carissa put their heart on the table, and i do too. And i learn to heal under their soft palms. Under the dimmed sky of Ubud.

Ubud—1st. Nov. 2020