Perfection was a myth before your presence became my resting place.
Like flying pigs and purple rain,
Like policemen and black lives matter,
Like true love and soulmates,
Perfection was created to instil hope.
It didn’t exist.
How could it?
Why should it?
But perfection was what I felt.
It was you on a gloomy day,
Words of affirmation rolling off the tip of a familiar tongue,
Thousands of words exchanged daily.
Perfection was inner jokes and comments, o so shady,
Embarrassing nicknames and frequent glances.
For a word that wasn’t real, it sure was considerate and thoughtful,
Brilliant and delightful.
For a moment, I was finally convinced
That it did exist.
How could it not?