You are so fine.
Your laughter possesses this magical power that is surprisingly contagious. Every time you pierce the heavy stillness of the night with your bare, genuine series of laughter, each slightly different with its own variation, I always find myself smiling or even laughing along with you despite having no clue what triggers your laughter. Sometimes your breathy, melodic laughter sounds so much like a suffocated donkey striving for air.
But still, your laughter is so damn fine.
You are a terrible singer.
Every time you sing, I flinch a bit because it is so high-pitched and so off-tuned. But because you are so happy, so into it, your voice dances in my ears and it pleases me. I would say I hate it, and I would complain. But those are all lies.
I really, really like it when you sing. Because you are so terrible at singing.
You are very forgetful.
I would tell you a story, and you would be surprised with some small details about me in the narrative. You would repeat my words in your surprising voice, louder than usual because it is so shocking to you and ask me if those are true. I would say yes, and you would find it funny you didn’t know that before even though you did. Sometimes this makes me wonder if you truly care about me because those facts about me are so basic and simple. But every time, you appear to be really surprised, or really interested in knowing more of the facts, that I find myself forgiving you for being forgetful every time.
You are very forgetful. But I'm more than happy to keep bamboozling you with the same facts a thousand times more.