remember

I sensed a calm
when I ran
from that place--
suburbia and used people like dirty napkins.
You and I
Louis and Clark
clutching each other
desperately.
We were lost, alone
in love so new
but your eyes were shifty
from the start.
We would collapse
on the pavement
together
but you did not
brush off my
dress.
Or close your eyes
at dawn
and feel the cracks
in my skin
because you were
"too busy."
I think you always wanted to make it easier to forget.
And even when my hands
began bleeding;
sausage fingers, broken nails
from the parts
I gave.
I bent
and shifted
I became a gymnast
with a foot
wrapped around my head.
You molded me
and you were never forgiving--
I became perfect
and then I became nothing.
I did not need
your body wash
shampoo
cologne
or those few
greasy hairs
stuck in your mother's shower drain.
I did not need those
polaroids,
t-shirts,
half-eaten big macs.
I did not need that video of you and I laughing
on the futon.
I even shipped your
phone
without crying
too badly
because I remembered.
And I think
even me
could not make you
remember.