Things I Do When I Start Thinking About You

Sophia Louise
Sophia Louise

I read the last paragraph of my favorite book. I remind myself that some things I love end. And that’s okay.

I eat cookies.
I text my best friend and tell her I’m thinking of you.
And she says, “Are you eating cookies?”
Because she knows I am.
This sugar addiction is hard to kick,
just like you.
You’re a sweetness I know is bad for me,
I understand the doctors will tell me it isn’t healthy,
And I have tried to cut it out,
but going cold turkey lends itself to relapse.

So I relapse,
and I think of you.

I look up at the moon. I remember the night we did it together, and you made a joke that something I said caused all the craters. As if my words are powerful enough to cause cosmic indents. You say, “You will be a Poet Laureate.” And I say, “Do you even know what that is? Because no, no I will not.” But you kiss me with your thin lips and mouth full of hope, but words that cut up my insides.

I realize you are looking at the same moon. But we are miles away. So I go back inside.

I text the boy from two summers ago. He doesn’t respond.

I listen to a playlist I have carefully crafted with songs that don’t come close to touching love. They are about dancing and going out. They are about not caring. They are about anything that is the antithesis of how I feel about you. But you find a way into them. Songs about money and pussy, you still weave yourself inside. You’re kind of incredible like that.

I go on Twitter.

I go on Facebook.

I go on Instagram.

I see you in pieces of everything. I want to disconnect for a decade. Imagine throwing my laptop in the ocean and hope you’ll wash away with it. But you won’t. It would just be a waste of a great laptop.

I read old letters from my dad. I think of calling him. Remember I can’t. Because he’s not here. And I guess, you are. In the physical way he is not. And I feel a little sick about it. Because maybe my dad would have had the answers. Maybe my dad would have said the right combination of things that would break this habit. Maybe if I never lost my dad, I would have never searched for the remedy in you.

I dance until I can feel my own heartbeat thumping in my chest. It feels like you. It feels like us.

I light a match. I do not smoke. I never have. But I light a match and watch how long it burns until it touches my fingertips.

I run outside. It’s dark and I shouldn’t be running without a flashlight, but I don’t really care. I begin running so fast, I trip over my eager feet and my mouth collides with cement. I spit out your name with coughs of blood.

I watch Netflix. I’m not really watching.

I click.

I click.

I look at my phone. Text.


I draft a text to you. I delete it. I’m mad at you. I draft a message telling you that. I stop. I message my best friend. She says, “Don’t.”

So I don’t.

I kill half a bottle of wine. I cry a little bit. Not enough that anyone could hear. But enough that it stings. It always burns a little. You’re like the first shot. I know it’s going to burn. I grit my teeth and down you anyways.

I write something about you. I stop. I delete it. I’m mad because you don’t even read my work. You say I’m your favorite and you loved me, but you don’t know what love entails, so I try to stop thinking of you.

I try to stop. I do other things. I promise, I try to do other things. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

​This is an excerpt from Ari’s newest poetry collection GREEN EYES, available on Amazon and iBooks.


✨ real(ly not) chill. poet. writer. mental health activist. mama shark. ✨

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