If I’m going to be honest

If I’m going to be honest,
(which is like peeling off scabs
at the swimming pool while daydreaming
about nothing in particular)
she never knew how much
or how little I loved her
because my love for her
had little to do with her,
any more than the sun dancing off the water
had to do with my delight at seeing
an unexpected butterfly alight on my knuckle
and, looking over to see her witness it, too,
smiling at the idea that someone else saw it.

She’s that half a melody
that reminds me of something
that has nothing to do with the song;
I get happy when she comes around
because of who she brings with her.
Now that I think of it
I didn’t really love her at all,
not the way she was used to love,
but I used her to remember where I was
when she was there -
the way balloons racing into the sun
remind me of how she smiled with her mouth open
when she leaned her head back to watch them;
or how the lyrics to that song
remind me of how terrible she carries a tune;
or how that one beat
reminds me of how we stepped in the park
that late afternoon just before it rained.

So maybe it would be best
to stop telling her I love her
when I really just want her to
fill in the space in my head
with old receipts from moments I almost forgot
but for the fact that she still has them
sticking to the bottoms of her shoes,
stuffed in her purse,
or posted on the refrigerator.
Receipts of me
She keeps up with better than I do.

©06.16.2018 ebn