if you're reading this

I want you to know that I think about you all the time. Or, I don't want you to know. I hope you are not thinking of me in the way that truly happy people don't think about things other than what's right in front of them, making them happy. I hope there is a girl who makes you forget all about me.

But I'm thinking of you. I think of you when I find an outrageous patch of long leg hairs I missed shaving hiding behind my knee, and how I would have yelled to you from the bathroom to come see. I think of you when I think of comfort, and familiarity, and solidity. I think of you because I thought of you every day for five years, and the needle in my brain finds those grooves without me trying. I think of you, and I think of you, and I think of you. And I wish there was some way that I could think of you and know that you understand, and you don't hate me, and that you don't also think of me, but with anger and hurt and confusion.

Maybe in an alternate universe, I don't have to think about you. I just roll over and you're there. Or I think about you with mild annoyance because you're snoring, or sweating, or left the dishes in the sink again. I never chose to leave - I didn't have to, there, wherever we are in that universe. We are who we were meant to be.