Perhaps

so when his sausage fat fingers
come to rest on your sharp shoulders
resist the whisper from inside
that wants it to be me
for I need to be forgotten
or my memory will eat you
like a maggot in an apple

he'll fry you up a treat
in his palatial kitchen
(the reason you're both still there)
all the time his head infected
with the still shot of
you and me entwined

perhaps you have chosen well
trading this love for the endurance
of a teenage bond that never evolved
perhaps you will look back at me
with not a piece of simpering regret
perhaps you and he will be happy ever after
and I will fade to a box of trinkets
only viewed on dark nights
when my arms are so far away.

perhaps.