I realized sometime in the last month,

that I tend to think of you too often,

more often than I know you like,

and more often than I know I like.

Thankfully, soon after, work got busy,

and I had more to do and think about,

and now I only think of you,

when I have the time,

which is in short bursts of a minute or two,

and sometimes even a solid fifteen,

but in that while, I think of you,

like I imagine old saints,

think of the divine,

in ancient caves.

what else is love of our kind,

but worship.