in the dim room, i write
your name on the paper's edge,
fingers trembling, ink hesitates
as if afraid of permanence.
kain sarung drapes the chair,
holding whispers of our past,
the plastic creaks under time's weight.

i speak to the wall, careful
words barely escape my lips,
the paper crumples, discarded,
yet it carries a story untold.
the room listens, in silence,
as i find solace in the act—
of letting go, gently, finally.