I think about you a lot. Even if I’m thinking about something else - you’re still there, tessellating in the centre of my mind. I think so much about you that I wonder what occupied me before.
I think about your edges, your ends and beginnings. I start to find them in my morbid every day existence. I see the creases of your palms in those that hand me my morning coffee, your golden hue in the sunlit corner of a courtyard. I taste you in the musky scent of strangers, find your tones in the frenzy of rush hour. You overwhelm my senses until I can’t be anything else but absorbed into my thoughts of you.
And then you call - and there’s perfect stillness. I can breathe again, the air not as heavy and my heart races for another, less abstract reason. Your voice is physical, stroking that cataclysm in my cortex, calming.
And then the call ends, and I start thinking about you again.