When I met you for the first time, I thought your eyes were the biggest I’d ever seen
And I ignored my usual dislike of mouths as large as yours,
Reasoning that it should be so wide to accommodate the smiles you always wore.
At lunch, you quoted Mia Wallace and I should have known then to run.
Instead, I asked you about New York.
Your food got cold because you talked for so long.
I was silent and full.
Driving you back home, I told you my first lie when you asked if I was an atheist.  
We had *** in your bathroom the next day.
I watched movies you liked.
I told you my second lie when I pretended to cry at the end of Elizabethtown
We had *** again that night.
Roughly.
I told you I would move back to New York with you in the fall.
Another lie.
Another ******.
Lying to you came naturally and so I did it often.
It makes sense, then, that the whole affair would end with a lie.
New York wasn’t the problem.
You were.