I stare at myself, at the stranger who stares back at me.  I’ve been staring into the mirror for a week now, morning till night, day in, day out.
     I am not interested in the mouth, placed among bristles that have been carelessly tended.  Nor am I interested in the hands that grip the counter.  They are artist’s hands, but I don’t know if they have painted anything.  Indeed, I don’t know what the mouth has spoken, nor what the ears have heard, nor what the eyes have seen.
     The eyes. 
     The eyes are the only things I am only interested in, bright blue and clear as a lake in the summer’s sun.  I don’t try to brush the black hair that flops in front of the blue pits away; I am too absorbed in the pits themselves. 
     They must hold something.  I am convinced, without rightly knowing why, that they hold the key to my memories.  A week of staring into them has not aided me, but maybe today’s the day.
     I blink. 
     A smile. 
     A smile has emerged, bubbling to the surface of my blank mind.  A memory?  I hope so. 
     I close my eyes, willing the memory to materialize again.  There it is.  A perfect smile, a woman’s smile.  The smile of a girl in love, gazing at her lover.  I concentrate harder, eyes snapping open to stare, once more, into the twin wells of memories that are so deep you need something much greater than a bucket to reach their wonderful waters.
     A laugh, crystal clear, rings through my head.  There she is again, but this time I see her whole face.  Brown eyes, brown hair.  We’re looking at ourselves.  I’m smiling, an expression I don’t remember even being able to exist on my face.  The unkempt bristles are gone.  She says something, still looking at our reflection in the water, but the words are lost to me.
     I blink, and the progress is lost. 
     Gone. 
     I angrily slam my fist down on the table and turn away from the mirror, from the stranger who mimics my every move.  I chew my lip and the room in front of me vanishes as my eyes cloud over and my mind wanders restlessly. 
     A week ago I woke up, not remembering anything, without a clue of why this was. I thought that surely, eventually, someone would report me missing.  Perhaps the girl with the perfect smile and the laugh like crystal chimes. 
     Does she look for me?  Does she wait for me?  Does she cry at night, wondering where I am, if I’m alright, if something has happened to me?
     Has she found someone else?  Someone better? 
     Has her memories of me disintegrated like mine have? 
     I hope she’s alright.  I hope she has found someone, because I don’t think I’ll ever make it back to her.  Maybe she doesn’t want me back.  
     There is nothing in the news about a missing man.  Maybe I’m in the wrong town.  Maybe I haven’t looked hard enough.  Maybe I’m in the wrong world.
     It feels like I’m in the wrong world.
     The moments I haven’t been staring into the mirror I’ve been searching outside of myself for anything that might hint at who I am.  So far, nothing has presented itself.
     Perhaps I can start over, create a new set of memories in this world I don’t remember, in this world that doesn’t remember me.  I sigh and cross over to the window to stare at this unfamiliar world.  Fitting in, or at least trying to fit in, seems almost useless.  I am a leave that has fallen off a tree. 
     Forgotten.