You tell me I’m gorgeous as if I’m allowed to let it mean something.
As if you weren’t across the country.
So I send you pictures of me in good lighting,
as if
that could make you forget:
you’re surrounded by pretty girls.

And we make plans
“let’s do this again”
as if I were ignorant
to the fact that
my best friend liked you—
but it’s not as if
I care, right?

I threw care out the window
when you closed the blinds,
let me run my fingers
through your dark, delicious hair,
when you let your shirt
just slide off,
as if
it were the most natural thing
I could want.