Perfect


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1. Perfect

The title of this poem is a paradox.

Employing the notions of the starved genre of romance
is a weather worn and fragmented;
the purest form of confession
blotted on a page
tears of pent up frustration.

Your eyes are a mystery of green and blue,
a field of olive trees basking in the early Spanish morning
arms stretched up to seize the warmth 
of the insistent sun.

Your eyes crinkle when you smile
when you laugh
at your daft jokes.
Ripples in my deepest heart.

Your mind is a galaxy
of nebulas and constellations
ever moving yet never changing,
always beautiful, shining, bursting.

Not a genius but still wise,
your heart is an uncut gem.

Stubborn bullheadedness - boyish stupidity - smacking pillow imagining it was the most fragile part of your being.

Human.

Warm

Intoxicating

Infuriating

Liberating

Mine.

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