Hapus Aku

Sometimes love dies quietly - without a cry, without a slam of the door, it just stops breathing between words. Everything seems to be still there: phrases, gestures, even familiar glances. Only the meaning has gone somewhere, dissolved, as if washed away by the rain.

And then all that remains is to write - not poems, not confessions, but quiet notes to God and time. Let them slowly wipe away the traces, pick apart the memories and put them in a box that will never be opened again. Because not everything that was beautiful is meant to be eternal.