I pretend it's still last summer, when you painted my room electric blue, and
talked to me the way one talks to a friend
because I still have things to talk about with you.
I pretend it was completely an accident, that time my leg brushed against yours
during another of our card-game-nights lasting 'til twelve
because I should have no reason for wanting to brush even closer to you.
I pretend I never noticed the shape your fingers made
as you flicked your hair away from your grey eyes
because if I knew too much about your hands, I might want to hold them.
I pretend I'm not in love with you
because your girlfriend's too perfect for anyone to ignore
because so many people know you, and her, and they'd call me crazy
because what do I know about love at my age, anyways?