#1
With this revision, my hope is that I answered some important questions about the relationships between the three people in this story while leaving some less important answers in my head, where they belong. C4C, as always.

These regrets illuminate the fringed edges of my forgetful memory:

I forgot what happened that night
and the way it affected you and me
and us and her. We came in threes back then.
You neglected to disclose to her why and what,
but only who and where and when,
and how you taught me to
crawl and then walk and then lie
when I woke the next day.
She was something other than reluctant
to share her less than kind opinion of me,
but held and comforted you nonetheless
when you worried that I might not be breathing.

I remember, especially, the words
you said to her in parting and the way they made me
seep into my own insides, like a turtle,
as I retreated to the shore where I was born.
The waves left bruises and marks,
leaving me as if I'd been in a fight
or was thinking of coming in pairs again,
and you cried in your own arms
when you saw me looking as death like that.

We rarely talk now, particularly about anything
meaningful or real or true.
Even less about pairs. We come in ones these days.
I forgot how cute you are when you're mad at me
for looking at other girls, or
for bringing up pairs again
and the way we never came in them.
Instead we speak mostly of trivial things as
clouds and leaves and
ones and threes.

We still don't come in pairs,
though we occasionally pretend to because
odd numbers scare the hell out of me.
Our favorite place to make-believe together
is the shore where we will die.
You and me and us, without her,
we view the lake as home
from inside ourselves, like turtles.
#2
You're being deliberately vague. It hurts the whole piece. The connection between the 'ones and threes' business and you and her and all that? There's nothing substantial to weave them together, so this reads like binary, or propositional logic:

111
110
101
100
011
010
001
000

aaannnd it's not very pretty. poetry can be vague and bush beating all it wants, but there's got to be something we can grab onto when it gets too slippery, you know? there are no branches here.