Ask me some time how often I think of you.
I’ll probably tell you “all the time” or “daily” or some vague nondescript answer that shrugs off the question and provides no real answer.
Because the truth is that I think about you every time I look at the right corner of my couch.
I think about you when I think about:
Seattle and rose gardens and
stinky brussel sprouts,
Carnivals and Ferris wheels
Hiking and volcanos
Muse and rugby
Poetry, puns, fashion
I think about you when I think about things you probably don’t think about anymore (or maybe you do and I just don’t know)
Or when I see a Mazda
Or when I see a sunflower
“Slow down ze car!”
November, Christy Carlson Romano’s dad
White and grey chevrons, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, holding hands
I think about every second I’ve loved you, all of it, all the time.
And how you said “a lot of people know how you love me,” and I said “that’s not enough”
You are the most beautiful constant.
So the question is not how often I think about you, it’s what I think you are to me