Forget me. In sips. By the way. At rush hours. On the thoughts. Just before dawn! In the palms of the morning. Forget it! Between sips! And breathe! As in a lesson. Deep. Evenly. And with your footsteps. Because difficult loves are like that— with an infinitely short term. They have no preservative. And they are somehow relatives. After them you have either deaths or rebirths. And no sensitivity. You also gain talent— to cultivate memories, that they were!... that there were! In the blind eyes of your empty past… Forget me. In sips. Between love and hatred. Among others. And between the truths. Those. The hidden ones. In the wine. In the smoke.
# Forget Me Forget me like the morning forgets the night, like water forgets the shape of the vessel, like the tree forgets the seed it once held curled in its wooden heart. Forget me like the rain forgets the cloud, like the road forgets the footprints pressed into its patient dust, like the river forgets the mountain spring. Forget me like breath forgets the body, like light forgets the lamp, like the song forgets the singer's throat— that hollow, quivering place where it was born. Forget me gently, the way flowers forget the darkness of the soil, the way hands forget the weight they carried all day. Forget me completely, as if I were a word in a language no one speaks, a name called out in an empty room, an echo that never quite returns. Do not keep me like a pressed flower between the pages of a book, do not visit me like a grave with flowers, do not speak my name to the wind. Let me dissolve like salt in water, like footprints in fresh snow, like yesterday's newspaper, like a dream upon waking. Forget me—not with cruelty, but as the earth forgets the fallen leaf, as the sky forgets the bird's brief passing, as time forgets itself in the merciful turning of hours.
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