Some days you are the wall in my room
That I lean against and think
Or the ceiling above my head
that I stare longingly for hours
Some days you are the coffee
That I sip and savour slowly
Some noons you are the swing
Where I take my short siesta
Many days you are the paper
On which I rage and write
Or the pages of the book
whose words become you
Most days you are my phone
That I kiss when you talk
But every night you are my pillow
Smeared with faint drops of love
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