I think about you a lot.

Often it makes me happy, but every now and then I have to wonder if it’s such a good idea or not. I mean, how much thinking is too much thinking? When do the things I imagine or daydream supplant reality and color my expectations, carrying them over into some fantasy dimension in my head? There are always questions. I’ll ask many of them.

Often (I don’t know how often— sometimes it’s only Now and Then, sometimes it seems like a Constant Thing) I find myself looking over at the empty passenger seat, about to ask you something; maybe "What’s your opinion?" or maybe "Where would you like to eat dinner?" or maybe "Have you seen where I put my sunglasses?" Other times I try to imagine what a situation would be like if you were part of the equation. Would I be as eloquent as I sometimes feel when all we do is type at each other, sending strings of binary data across endless light-seconds of cables and wires and waves? Would I just stumble over my words like always? I talk too fast so much of the time, though I’ve been trying consciously to slow myself.

Deep in my mind I know we’re both just human beings, fragile in as many ways as we are strong and skilled in as many ways as we are ignorant. And then I wonder which parts of you I haven’t seen. Which parts haven’t you showed me? Which parts haven’t I showed you? I want to write you a poem. I haven’t written one in months, let alone for another person. I can’t even decide what it should be about. Should I torture myself until it all rhymes? Should I just write something descriptive or picturesque, toss in line breaks and clever spacing then call it “free verse?” I don’t know.

There’s a lot I don’t know. And not all of it can be taught to me, no matter how many questions I ask.

What do I imagine? Daydream about? Mostly the usual things... like driving somewhere together... (Do you mind if I drive? Do you always want to drive, loving it like you do? Do you want to trade places half-way on a long trip? Do you care one way or the other?)... or watching a movie that just came out, standing in line with a huge crush of eager people, complaining about how horrible ticket prices have gotten, gazing a posters and standies that advertise coming attractions, playing video games or whatever else we do to pass the time... (Do you like to sit in the front? In the back? In the middle? On the aisle? In the corner? Do you even like movie theaters? Would you go to a movie I was interested in even though it’s probably cheesy or even downright lame?)... or playing in my free time... (Do you like rollerblading? Do you like trying to outrace each other using only Nintendo controllers? Do you like to take walks, at night, in the soft rain? How about hiking?)... or listening to music... (Would you like this disc if I played it for you? Would you let me play it because it was something I wanted to share, even if you ended up not liking it? Would you tell me you didn’t like it or ask me to switch instead of just sitting there like my other friends do, not really listening or, and dammit this annoys me, singing or humming something else at the same time?)... or what it would be like to have you as my lover, hold you with both arms, hugs that mean more than just friendly, kisses more than simpler affections... (Would you hold my hand in public places? Would you lean over and kiss my cheek for no reason WHATSOEVER than because you wanted to? Would you wake me if you had a disturbing dream? What side of the bed do you like to sleep on? Would you sleep in contact with me or apart? Would you tell me how you like to be touched on each of your 2,000 parts so I can draw pleasure out of watching you revel in it all?)... it goes on and on and on.

There isn’t a day goes by (and probably not even an hour) when I don’t imagine you with me in one capacity or another. Almost as often I hate the distance between us, made so deceptively small by the speed of technology; modems and phones. Sometimes I even find myself muttering half-formed curses, not even certain what I should be cursing.

Where is this all going? Nowhere really. I’m just ranting. What does it all mean? Am I obsessed or infatuated? I don’t think so. I’m not writing your name on every piece of paper I own or stalking you. I talk about you to people when they say or do things that remind me of you. Or when they say or do things I know you’d have a comment about. Sometimes even when it’s awkward to do. I mention you anyway, even when they have no clue who or what I mean. Does it mean I’m in love? Maybe. I don’t even know the sound of your voice. Yet when I got up in the middle of the night, didn’t I see you curled up under the blankets beside my place? No... I was just dreaming again.

I hope I don’t have to be content with that forever. Just wondering all that.