She

She complained about the sun thinning. Maybe it was on some sort of cosmic diet. She complained about me, to me. She loved me, but she didn’t love her. Self that is.

She didn’t see what was easy for me to see. The little lies that fell from her mouth, quickly morphing into truth out of respect for the heart they used to sing with on mornings when sleep wouldn’t stick around.

She … She was something. Something to revel at when she used the window for a TV screen. Buses and bikes gliding by quiet trees.

She would blow me kisses but quickly suck them back in, laughing at how quickly my smile fell into a frown.

She loved me.