I was only a flower, after all

To be found by a day is to know that you are, in fact, lost—

Ask for directions they whine;
From the backseat
their memories hiss over the hum.
But those ghosts only know where we’ve been
not where we are
or where we’re supposed to be:
now. 

What a terrible comedy, he hears
As sleep hushes the day
  and send invite to quiet company
They all know just how brittle I am
but deliver pipe bombs as condolence.
I bleed again on the floor we built together. 

Can a man be sought out by day as if day were a seeker?

What if these mirrors tell the truest tale,
and I’m older than imagined,
smaller even than yesterday? 

I dream of trees talking—
by streams
they hold
as ancient sages who’ve witnessed us grow.
We were the flowers along the path
who gave praise to summer.
Though they have no fruit
they belong to seasons. 

I want nothing more than to cry honest tears
and awake from being a foreigner in my own chest.