I think on you probably more than I should, and honestly, more than I want.

I think on you like a distant dream. Like a perfect and idyllic ideal.... Like that thing that I don't need, but I'm dying to have.

I think on you even when I believe that I forget you and then you reappear in my mind like an explosion of blue and orange and red in the lighter that lights up my cigarette.

And I don't sleep thinking on having you with me. Having you in my bed; in my shapeless arms, that, if you're not with me, are just lifeless things.

Above all the things, I think on you because I know you think on me.