I thought that after I saw you last time, I'd stop thinking about you so often. I thought I'd remember how much I don't feel connected to you, how sometimes you made me feel uncomfortable. I thought I'd stop wondering what made you the only guy that's not a distant second to a good DVD on a Friday night. I thought that we don't know each other well enough, that we can't ever be involved, that the way I think about you is crazy and irrational, and that it's clearly not meant to be. I thought I'd stop thinking about where I'm going next in relation to whether I'll ever see you again. I thought I'd stop thinking about you in the course of my conversations. I thought I'd stop wanting to talk to you, to tell you about my day or my plans or this really neat article I read. I thought I'd stop wanting to hear your voice, hear about your day, your family, your friends, your plans. I thought that I would stop falling asleep every night thinking about how perfect it felt to be curled up with you, listening to your breathing, feeling the way you take your place in the world even while you sleep. I thought that I'd stop wishing that it had been you that called instead.
I was wrong.