Popsicles

I have no idea what this is or where in my mind it came from.

You told me you were in love. I guess you never expected me to look back; to see what was written on your chest. I did, though and I saw those letters carved there, but I couldn't tell if it was your hands or hers that did it. I could just see the scars and the childlike scrawl they were written in. You made me promise to not tell anyone that I'd seen it. I broke that promise. I went to Sandy's grave and whispered it into the soil. She didn't have anymore insight into the situation than I did. She never does. I've gone there every day for five years, three months and thirteen days now and she never does. I like to imagine that she stands next to me when I'm there and that she puts her hand on my shoulder and tells me what's right like she use to, but it's just that: my imagination and I can never get her wisdom down quite right. All I ever come up with are those vile cookie cutter truisms; popsicle stick platitudes. God, Sandy hated popsicles, especially the orange one. She never told me that, though. She'd lie and say she wanted them and then I'd go and buy a box of them for her and she'd eat them despite hating them and it all just made her hate them more. She could never bring herself to eat the orange ones, though. She'd leave them in the box when she'd eaten all the rest and never bother to explain why, so I'd eat them. I never liked them, either, but I never told her that. I didn't want her to feel bad for leaving them in the box. I like to think that our relationship was something more than us eating popsicles that we didn't like and lying about the fact that we didn't like them to make each other happy (or at least less miserable), but sometimes I'm not sure. I'm never really sure. I guess that's really why I broke my promise: because I'm never really sure about anything and I just need to talk things out with someone sometimes to try and make myself sure, even if all I get back are my own thoughts.