I shouldn’t think about you.
it will be the death of me.

But here I am—living, breathing—thinking about you.

Even though I wish I wasn’t; I am thinking about you.

I’m thinking about the creases in your knuckles and the soles of your shoes and the way your chest moves up and down when your lying down. Inhale. Exhale.

I’m thinking about the sound of your heartbeat and the color of your eyes in the dark (it’s different, I swear) and the shape of your lips when you mumble my name. 

I’m thinking about you like insomniacs think about sleep; the way motels think about being cheap; the way my grandpa thinks about having a drink. I think about you like teachers think about teaching and preachers think about preaching. I’m thinking about you like the stars think about the dark or a swing set thinks about an empty park. 

I’m thinking about you like hearts think about beating, like lungs think about breathing; like he and she think about breathing.

I’m thinking about you the way eyes think about their sockets the way pockets think about swallowing lint.
I think about you the way that fingernails think about dirt and red balloons think about static electricity and the way my face thinks about being pressed into the fibers of my carpet.

I think about you like Stephen Hawking thinks about God. Like my hand thinks of your hand. 

Are you thinking about me?

Are you thinking about me like I think about you? Are you thinking about me when you should be thinking about him? 

Are you thinking about the time you said you would, but didn’t?
Or something I said or the way I blink? Or anything?

Anything?

Because I was thinking about you. I’m still thinking about you. Even when I’m not thinking about you, I have to think about not-thinking, so I am. I’m thinking about you.

You are in my thoughts.

Constantly.