I bet when she feels your hands she’ll cringe at the callouses
and you’ll explain how you got them and that you can play her a song
and I bet you’ll play the one
that made me want to fuck you
six months ago.
I bet when she’s on top of you
you’ll sneak those same hands up her thighs leaving little bumps and most of all
a cheeky hesitation
that I bet will remind you
I bet she’ll like all your favorite songs and sing loudly in your car
and I bet you’ll find it so fucking cute when she belts it out of tune
because I saw how you smiled when I messed up the chorus.
Maybe you’ll think of me when:
you look into her brown (not blue) eyes you bury your face in her dark, curly hair you spread kisses across her ample chest and maybe as comparison
you would think of my small tits.
I bet a bunch of doings
will make you think of me
as someone living in the back rooms and hidden closets of your consciousness
and not just some spirit of a girl you used to fuck six months ago.
But actually, I bet I’m just making all this up.
Because I’m heartbroken and pathetic
and I tell myself
I’m doing just fine besides,
one should never underestimate the power of the right Instagram filter
she doesn’t look that good in real life.