On most days, I swear I could feel your skinny arm pressed beside my dry skin.
But you keep me warm despite the lack of intimacy due to a limit in time.
The sarcasm your wide smile paints can get people mad, but I'm pretty sure I'm mad for it.

On most days, I don't think of you. But you're always at the back of my mind.
I may forget the things I think about each day, but I will never forget the ones that are just there ever since.

On most days, I can watch the years we've shared over and over again.
But it never gets old, like the ones that can both make you laugh and cry,
and the ones you already know the endings, yet you still watch them and feel like it's the first time.
I can write a book about those moments, and I'd write every copy of them and not get tired.

On most days, I wish those were the numbered days I get to be with you.
days where I couldn't keep myself from listening to your unappealing laugh.
between the spontaneous increasing of your voice and the beat it creates at every end,
I could just slide myself in them and rest my weary head.

On most days, you're here.
Underneath the darkness when my eyes shut
behind every melody of a favorite song
and inside every curve my lips make.
Because on most days, I am still in love. And on all days, I am in love.

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