“I am not perfect.” she said and I laughed.
“Perfection is a lie,
a ghost of someone who never lived.
It is make-believe,
a terrible barrier
to all the beauty in the world.”
“You are crazy.” she said,
and kissed me,
proving my point, exactly.
About this poem
I am not a fan of perfection. I believe that the need to achieve it is a thief and a liar.