Poetry: In Malang

the rain doesn’t
come as a surprise. Clouds,
already grey from
afar, marching in
funeral solemn. And
the sun retreats to make
way for gentle
tears, a prelude
into the fated mourning.
Bikers should know that
by now, it’s time
they put their coats
on. And I have known
long before
my knees clutched on
our newly swept
floor in Bago Aplaya
so you could bury
your parched lips
on my cheek, I
would be waiting for
the rain to stop
at a coffee shop
and ask the waiter, who
already knew what
I wanted: Americano,
a cup, bitter. It’s shade —
dark as decay
sipped out
by a jaded
embalmer. She would
refuse to serve it
unsweetened — as if
I needed comfort
for not expecting
the rain
to fall
in Malang.


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