Things I think about when I'm trying to not think about you:

The smell of oranges thinly sliced.
Sunlight making everything a million colors.
The feel of light rain on my bare arms.
A slight breeze through my hair.
The smell of a bonfire.
Running barefoot through tall grass
in the park by my house.
Rough waves crashing on the rocks.
The real vanilla my mom used in the cookies
at Christmas last year.
The sound of a tree falling in the woods
when no one is around to hear it.

The sound of a really bad storm
like the one up north when we stayed inside
and played hand-and-foot for six hours,
down the street from where those guys
with no shirts on
hit on me at the dock.
The loose cotton (of your favorite t-shirt)
and the soft tulle of my favorite tutu.
A fan reflected in the wet floor of the coffee shop
(where I am sitting, trying to forget you.)

Watching trees whiz past the car window
as we fly up the winding road
to the red cabin on the lake
by the beach I ran up and down
and threw rocks into the waves
(when everyone else saw and you
were so blind.)
Forgetting myself.
The accomplishment I feel when I'm running
and running
and I feel like I'm going to die and then
all of a sudden
I feel far better than fine
(because I'm
imagining you're here.)

The look that comes into your eyes when you're really excited.
Your warm breath in my hair as I did my homework before the art show
and tried to forget you doodling patterns on my bare leg
with the thorn you found on the bush outside
and that I kept in my wallet all summer
and lost the day I took it out and carried it in my pocket
because I was worried about being away from you.

Clearly, my plan isn't working very well.