the bus poem; part one - some sort of metaphor

It’s hard to leave,
but it’s no harder
than the stone
in my throat
that I submissively swallow
every time
I hear your name.
It sails
and sinks
to the pit
of my salt marsh stomach.
And I let it lie there,
waiting for its roll call.
Because I’d rather be choked daily,
than watch the last remaining essence of you
escape from my lips.
The same ones that would harbour your kiss
for hours
when you hid me in your bedroom,
and your parents never knew.
That’s all i want from you.
To be kept.
in your mind,
in your words,
in your arms.
Don’t forget how much you loved me.
Don’t forget how to love me.
Don’t forget how to remember how much you loved me.
And don’t forget how to remember how to love me.
We were always better than the rest.