The night we first met, you barely looked at me.
Your brother and mine, your friends and mine.
We got rowdy. We drank and played games.
You said I was cute, so I gave you my number.
We talked on the phone every night.
You sang to me as you walked your town.
Then you moved to mine.

I was taking a class, and you were taking a break
from the drugs and the *****, from your old life.
I'd daydream of coming home to you every day,
of your curly, blond hair and the way you looked at me
through your muddy eyes.
You held me in bed and I'd sleep in your arms, unlike any other.
You said it was crazy that I didn't think I was beautiful.
Than you talked to her.

I learned that she still loved you, why wouldn't she, I thought,
and you would go back to her, even though you said you didn't love her.
I said you used that word too much, love,
you should only say it when you really mean it, to not take it lightly.
Shrugging, you said you loved every girl you'd slept with, except me.
Then I ran.

I tried to date others, but always compared them to you.
His eyes are too dark. His hands aren't skinny enough.
He is too tall and his hair isn't curly enough.
I tried to be friends with you, hating her.
I heard that you got in a fight with her and she left, for good.
Then you messaged me.

You were done with her and you were lonely.
I went to you. We drank and watched sitcoms.
Having to adjust the antenna every few minutes.
I took your clothes off, then you took off mine,
and we reverted to how we were before.
Then you hugged me.

Weeks later, I'd given up on you.
I was wearing pajamas fit for three of me, hair on top of my head,
and no make up, when you knocked on my door. I invited you in.
Sitting on my bed, you fought for my attention.
Trying to leave the room, you pulled me into your lap. I finally gave in.
I gave you what was left of me, and you barely looked at me.