and when there's nothing left
don't forget me
but don't remember me wrong

i am buried under your idea of security
in separate rooms, where the only sounds are the
summer fan and the laptop keys, not the keys
that made me flinch when i heard them in the door

i am buried under your idea of forever
location dictated by your success, which
apparently, i lack so much of when you tell me
all about the things i should have done
(which wouldn't have changed your mind anyway)

i am buried under your idea of home
where the holes were filled two years ago
and the sound i heard
the thud, thud, thud against the drywall
was the beating of our hearts when we make it through
another one

and another one,
and i'm buried in the pillow
and it's the duvet, not your hands
(even though i still feel them all over)
and they hurt, and your lips taste like
rotten fruit and guilt and shame
and no amount of scrubbing will
let me forget you

and when there's everything left
i'll remember you right
where i found you, and where you will stay
in a cold glass box, all locked up
sound familiar?