I don't think of you very often.

Oh, maybe occasionally.

Sometimes in the morning 
   when I half-wake and reach out to touch you
   realizing too late that you won't be there 
   even though I was with you in my dreams 
   a split-second and a lifetime ago --

Sometimes in the middle of a dull afternoon 
   when nothing is too anything here in the Cube Farm,
   papers quietly rustling, keyboards softly tapping their monotonous tune,
   your face comes into my mind and the minutes slip silently by 
   like pearls dropping one by one into the mud before swine
   until suddenly I realize I've wasted half an hour daydreaming --

Sometimes in the evening 
   when the sun is painting streaks of indigo and flame and gold across the sky
   and there's no one to sit and watch it and say nothing with me --

Sometimes at night
   when the rain rushes down from the sky like a river
   and the thunder rolls like a heartbeat --

And worst, or best, or most of all lying in bed on summer mornings
   when the sunshine spreads itself like butter over the pillows
   and the day stretches out long and lazy and tempting,
   the kind of day when we could sit outside on the patio of some bar, 
   drinking beer in the hot sun and talking about everything and nothing 
   and solving all the world's problems,
   until we feel like nothing on this earth could possibly be
   any better than being here and now and with each other --

See?  It's not very often.

Just any time I forget to forget you.