Forget-Me-Nots

Mechanical joints and cast-iron bones
tick forward like the hands of my pocket watch,
little forget-me-nots in a vase on the counter,
their petals beginning to wither and fall.

"Forget me,"  cries one, "forget me." Its voice
so familiar, yet I can't seem to place it.
"Forget me not," another sighs, sounding
quite as if it has forgotten me already.

They both fall, though. They dance -
briefly - around each other, a simple waltz.
They let go, they drift apart, they die alone.
I regret their loss, but what can I do?

Petals fall.
Flowers die.
Forget-me-nots are forgotten.
And the machine ticks on.