Slobodanka Pavlova - Macedonia 

My memory doesn't spend much time with me.
But I am not a boring person. I have never
met it, even though we live in the same head for years.
You know, it would rather sleep on the bar where you
you drank that non-alcoholic cocktail than sleep
on my pillow. That wooden bar. That feathered pillow.

Me and my memory never cover with the same blanket.
I notice, just before I go to sleep, it creeps through the kitchen door,
so I cannot dream of the day you tried four pairs of green
shoes, then bought those blue ones.

My memory is a cruel fellow. When I am asleep, it counts
the holes on your old umbrella. The one you had it on that 
last month rain. And before. The one that never protected us
from the rain, but it was a good umbrella for counting stars.
We would've counted every star above the umbrella, but you
only opened it when it rained. My memory keeps the secret of
the color of the umbrella. I only remember the holes.

My memory keeps my conscience in its wallet, full of
other people's conscience. But mine is bellow the glued zipper,
for which I am never sure if it unzipped on the left or on the right.
What am I without the knowledge of that direction? What are you 
without that old umbrella? 
Just an empty hole as memories are created of.