Wednesday day again.
I am thinking about what to cook tonight as I swing my legs out of bed.
What to eat for breakfast and if it's already time to clean the flat again.

And I am not-thinking about the fact that it has been over three hundred and sixty-five days since I last heard your voice. Or that it feels like more.

I am thinking about the coffee in my cup and not-thinking about salted bagels and tea drunk from a jar in the dusk.

I am thinking about all the books I haven't read and all the places I have yet to go. And so you see, I am not-thinking about the endless colour of the sky as the sun dipped behind the mountains or the taste of wild blackberries on my tongue.

And I will not-think about the smell of the rain in the cold
The squareness of the houses
The hot panting of my breath as I pedalled up steep hills in the dark.

I am thinking about the brightness of the yellow trees here, and the way the flat has already begun to smell of me.

I will not-think about the arid smell of brown grass or the scent of front garden flowers after the rain
or the sliver-grey-blue of the water
The creak of the wooden boards.

I am thinking about the dryness in my hands,
And not-thinking about the ache in my throat when you walked away from me for the last time.
Not-thinking about the warmth of your hands in the dim light of the bar, the taste of hot chocolate sachets mixed with coffee, the bite of the evening air or a lamp-lit bridge under stars.

I do not feel a tugging at my heart when I think of the ocean's inky blackness in the late hours.
I do not feel like I am holding myself together with my arms late at night when I remember what it was to laugh until my sides hurt.

I am not-thinking about you.

I am not-thinking.

I am not...