I Could've Stayed With You

I could've stayed with you.

I could have dried out and shrunk up, like fresh grass plucked from the dirt by some toddler's chubby hands, thrown onto the cement and forgotten, easily, as the next distraction came.
I could have fallen under the weight of you, the weight of us, that only I could feel and believe in and hold up.
I could have rested quietly, small, at the foot of the bed while I waited for your eyes to fall on my half-eaten heart.
I could have grown stale from not being sealed up properly, the cheap plastic only loosely fitting my untouched flesh, when you forgot about me
Forgot about me at stop lights that last a little too long for eyes to meet and lips to touch
Forgot about me across from you at the diner while your black coffee and yellow eggs went cold
Forgot about me while the words and the air were still moving from my lungs and heart and mind and mouth.

Thank God I didn't stay with you.