Forget
         me
             not
                 flowers.
I arrange them everywhere.
On my bed,
       in my pillow case,
                               in vases,
                                    on windowsills.
I'm trying to remember
the girl I was before.
I'm not sure
           who I was
                                   when I was three,
or eight,
                                                  or twelve,
or sixteen.
                     Disappointing
                               my
parents,
                                                  friends
and teachers
                          is easy.
I'm more afraid that little me
would squint her eyes in disgust
at the sight of what I have become.
But I cannot seem to remember
who I was before.
My thoughts.
My skin.
My hair.
They're gone.
I struggle to collect the things I am
in a tidy bundle.
                 Forget-me-nots
                 cover my hands.
Yet I cannot remember.
                  I practice forgiveness
only
                                               in theory.
But could they forgive me?
I'd like to think they can.
But
           I am
                       unsure.
Yet does it matter?
Would it matter
             if     they    didn't?
Or would it be better
             if    they   didn't?
Forget
        me
           nots.
Forgive
          me
              nots.
Forgive
          me
             please.

She dries her hands with the kitchen towel.
And apologizes for the mess
that isn't there.
She puts an apron
on top of her evening black dress.
She cooks eggs
and smiles with lipstick stained teeth.
I sit on the small kitchen stool
and read out loud
from a Terry Pratchett novel
laying open on my lap.
She giggles
and her laugh fills the small apartment.
She says she's so happy
and anxious
to have me in her home.
And I stare
at her back
and her messy braids.
They're falling apart.
I can't find the words
to tell her
that a late theater play
and fried eggs for dinner
in an flat the size of a cup holder
translate to salvation in my language.
I don't have enough vocabulary
to explain
how her friendship tastes
like chamomile tea when you're ill.
And how talking about boys with her
clears the cigarette smoke from my lungs.
Because she feels like starting over,
she feels like trust,
she feels like the new friend
you read about in novels
where everything clicks.
And so I'm left
with a butterfly heart.
And the only thing I can do
is thank her time and time again.

Give me the melancholy
of clear skies
in moody March,
and the joy
of scorching sun
in mid October.
Give me the elixir
of blooming trees
in festive May
to put me into
somber slumber.
Give me earthy,
muddy leaves,
woven into soft rugs,
to walk on with
gloomy November.
I want to be fitted into a calendar,
into comfortable routine
so that I roll my way backwards
in near perfect opposition.
I want to rewind the seasons so as to match my mood.
Maybe then I'll be in sync with time.