She isn’t special.
This is how every poem starts like and it ends with a description of a woman being not perfect but close enough.
But when I tell you that she isn’t special, I truly mean it.
In every way.
She is neither the sun waking you up on a sunday morning, nor the storm on a thursday giving you an excuse to stay at home.
She is the average 15 degrees on an average wednesday. You wouldn’t remember her the day after.
She is neither a long bath you take after a hard day of work, nor the tasty meal you made only for yourself while emptying the only good bottle of whine you owned.
She is the pizza you heated up on an average friday when you were out of motivation.
She is neither the ride on the rollercoaster to relive your childhood, nor the arrival at your old friend’s town after a long journey through half of the country.
She is the walk you take when you lack of activity.
You see, she isn’t anything you would even want to keep in mind, even if you could because she is average and you are as well and you can’t live with the thought of an average woman by your side.
But truth be told; without this average, without this routine, without this feeling of nothing-happened-today,
you would feel so incomplete that not even the smartest, funniest and most beautiful woman walking on earth could fill the hole in your chest.