Dead Hearts

I want you to have fond memories of me,
especially, when you're with her.

It might sound selfish,
well, it is incredibly selfish--
but, at this point, I think it's only fair.  

I want the joyful scent of pomegranate
to softly whisper by your nose,
and make you turn
to see if I'm standing there.
Every time you see a box of dark chocolates at the store,
I want you to consider purchasing them
until you recall that there's no one to buy them for.
When you hear on the radio
that song I tried to sing,
and failed so horribly at,
I want you to chuckle out loud.
(So she'll wonder what you're thinking.)
We went to Chinatown together
because you wanted to get lost together,
and you took her there either way.
While you're both there,
I hope you let slip my name instead of hers.
She'll pretend she didn't notice,
but you'll hear the hints of pain,
through the barely there quivers in her voice.
You'll pretend you didn't notice.

I want you to wish she had some qualities of mine,
and you'll consider,
(just consider),
that you miss me.

But then, of course, if she was like me--
If that was what your heart truly desired,
if I was really the one you wanted,
then you'd be with me right now.
Obviously, you're not here.
So wanting her to be like me,
would be relationship suicide.

I told you, when I was the most happy,
with shaky words and watery eyes,
"Please, don't forget me."

You pressed your dry lips against mine,
stayed still for 5 seconds,
then told me my anxiety was unnecessary,
because I was the only one you could ever love.

I hope you feel guilty--
(even just a little guilt would satiate me),
when you call her pet names you swore were just for me.

I can only love you--
I can only love you.
Those words were suppose to be for me only.

The spicy smell of your lotion,
the stiffness of your bed,
the hums you'd make when you were thinking--
Every scent, every sound, every feeling,
is drenched with fond memories of you,

and I end up wishing he was you.