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To Antares


Dear Antares,

I know you were there, beyond my eyes can see. 

Venus was brighter but it’s you I wanted to talk to.

For today I look at their faces. Both of them among the others unfamiliar. They’re not my dad nor my mom.

But all I saw was my father’s firm eyebrows, and my mother’s cheekbones that resembled mine.



And I saw someone else in them.

With his wavy, messy hair and neat teeth when he smile remind me, on some days, of the pile of books on his shelves.

I look again, at their faces—the skin, brows, cheekbones, dry lips— everything but the eyes.

For I’m afraid to find them blank, or teary. 

Of trying to stay steadfast while carrying the world—and after world—in their chest.

I embrace them with my cold skin.

But I hear a little crack, from inside her. Then another one, from beneath their skin. 



Antares, they turn their back on me and leave.

I look at my palms, and still, asking the same question hundreds of times.

“Don’t You think they are too tiny?” 

Yet I know it’s my time. To carry all the pieces in my palms.

I reach that dusty jar and open it again. After years.



A picture of galaxy was taken by a friend, Ari Febrio and the last one, my silhouette by Peri Nanda.

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