If We Collide

I hope Jakarta is a big enough city.

With thousands of tangled streets,
and millions of people,
I hope we are just two souls,
lost in separate lives,
never crossing paths.

Not on a crowded sidewalk, 
or in a quiet alley,
I hope you never catch me off guard
with my tired eyes,
and realize they’re only mirrors,
still reflecting you.

I hope we are just two ghosts,
haunting separate corners,
never colliding.

Not in a packed restaurant 
or in an empty coffee shop,
I hope I never see your happy face.
I don’t want to watch you stand up, smile,
and wrap your arms around my shoulders
like we were some old friends.

We were never friends.
I loved you,
you were never my friend.

I don’t want to greet you with a hello,
or ask a lousy how are you.
I don’t want to pretend you were just some stranger—
I met on a random Saturday afternoon,
three years ago.

But if for some reason Jakarta folds in on itself
and delivers you to me,
perhaps on a weary Wednesday evening
after a long, back-to-back meeting,
I’ll put on my mask and ask how you’ve been,
what you’re doing here—
the basics.

After a while,
the conversation will run dry.
I’ll smile,
and we’ll say goodbye.

And when you walk away,
I will let you—again.
I’ll count the steps it takes
for you to disappear from me—again.

I hope by then,
my feet will be able to move on their own.
That the weight of unsaid words,
unsent letters,
unpublished poetry,
won’t pull me deeper into the sinking sand
you left me in.

And I will try

to keep walking
through this city
that was big enough to lose you
but never big enough to let you go.