'I don't want perfection, ' I say
'It doesn't exist, and if it did, it'd be boring'
I say these words and she nods and smiles
I say these things but I think she 'is' perfect
In all the little ways
The turn of her nose
The shade of her eyes
The shape of her mouth
And the way she calls me on my bulls**t
She is perfect the way a Vermeer painting is perfect
made of light...
Light and shadows
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem