If I had a nickel for every time you said "I love you," and meant it,
then I could afford a five-stick pack of Big Red that'd burn less than when you told me love isn't enough.
It could cover up the smell of coffee on my tongue and increase my daily caloric intacke to 1005 for five days straight.
I could chew it loudly to cover up the voices telling me to forgive you and blow bubbles for the attention of young construction workers outside an office building.
When the flavor disappeared I could discard it oh-so-lovingly off a friend's balcony, or stick it to their rusting rail, or swallow it the way I do my words.

If I learned a lesson every time I got left alone in the cold, then I could become a teacher that made a difference in some kid's life.
I could teach similes and derivitives all day long and teach the ways of the world after the bell rang.
Some kid might grow up thinking I was their mentor when all I told them was common sense that comes with a broken heart and a cold mind.
I could be thought of as wise beyond my years and joke with collegues in the teachers' lounge about how I swear I was born in the wrong decade.

If I saw a sunrise every time you turned your back and swore that you wouldn't see my face again, then my sunglasses would see more wear'n'tear than my favorite pair of gold heels.
I could wear a visor and get a real tan that wouldn't make me look sickly in the middle of July.
I would grow tired of bright blues and oranges and long for the subtle roses and purples of sunset.
I could wish that I could see the moon just a little bit longer -- just in case a shooting star went by it so that I could wish you would turn around.

If a raindrop fell every time you said the word "I," then I'd be soaking, standing in a pile of pity-turned-guilt.
I could put on my galoshes and jump from puddle to puddle until I splashed the smallest bit of sense into you.
When the rain turned cold, I could crawl under the covers and pretend to nap with you while I listend to it tip-toe on the tin roof.
When the day gave way to night and the drops blended into the stars, I could watch you think quietly, waiting until you saw that I was drowning in lonliness.

If I grew an inch every time you told me you wanted to hold me forever, then I'd tower over my peers and say things like "how's the weather down there?"
But if it were only the times you meant it, then I'd learn how to get around by climbing on step stools and countertops, blindly reaching into the tops of cabinets for dreams that I can't find.