This is not about you.

I'm not thinking about you like feet think about walking, and girls think about talking, or anything like that. 
I'm not thinking about you like birds think about flight, and the tired think about the night, not at all like the stars think about shining. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like words think about books, or food thinks about cooks because cooks also think about heartbeats. 
I can't possibly be thinking about you the way hearts think about blood, or the way they think about love that doesn't even exist they way they want it to. 

I'm not thinking about you at all. 

I'm not thinking about you like clocks think about the past, and the way they think about the future.
I'm not thinking about you like pillows think about dreaming, and souls think about sleeping, and fires think about wood.


I'm not thinking about you at all.

I would never dream of thinking about you the way fingers think about typing, and pens think about ink, all trying to make words that might make the reader think and forget who they are trying to not think about. 
I'll keep not thinking about you, not thinking about you the way paint thinks about canvas and paint brushes that are white. 

I won't think about you at all.

I'm not thinking about you at all.








Except I'm lying.