I drove out to your house last night
and your mom told me that you've been well.
And I don't know why that hurt so much.
But I've been thinking that maybe it was because,
you've moved on from the memories of us.
Maybe you've forgotten the scent of my body wash,
and it's ****** that I can still smell hints of yours in my sheets.
The night you left,
I drowned myself in a bottle of your favorite wine,
and I could've sworn I heard echoes of your voice in the ripples
of the dark plum liquid.
I spent the night throwing up into the sink,
and sobbing into the bath mat.
Maybe you've forgotten my electric-blue fingernails,
that traced lazy circles on the back of your hand.
Maybe you've forgotten the kisses I planted on the corners of your mouth.
Maybe you've forgotten just how much I begged
for you to stay.
Because I hear you've been doing well,
and I still can't listen to your favorite song without heaving.
I guess it hurts to be forgotten,
just as it hurts to remember.

I drove out to your house last night
and I crashed my Toyota into a street light on my way back.
The flickering light casted a shadow on the hood of my white car
and I noticed that it looked a lot like the ones we casted
on the night you first kissed me.
"She's lost too much blood," the paramedic wore the same cologne as you.
I screamed as they charged the defibrillator
full of the memories I tried to escape.
"Time of death: 1:35 AM."

You cried at my funeral.
I was sorry.

I guess it hurt letting go,
just as it hurts to be let go.