I looked at him and wondered
All these inches neatly stacked on top of each other
Did I say neatly?
No not neatly, a little misplaced some of them, like building blocks.
But I digress,
Inch upon inch of perfection.
But wait perfection is boring. And he is not.
He is delight in a frame.
He is a hug in a bubble.
He is faulty perfection.
He is an oxymoron. And sometimes just a moron.
I can’t wax eloquent much about him because an inflated ego is an affliction that we are trying to get him rid of.
Why don’t they have those rehabilitation centers for egomaniacs?
I would give him a birthday surprise then.
But I think I am the ego antidote that he really needs
Quite like, batman. The hero that gotham needs.
I am the hero.
And he is my poetry. My flow of words.
So you know when the words stop. He is being an ass.
Why does this sound like I am not really saying nice things about him?
Because he laughs and smiles more at the not so nice things than the nice ones
And what’s not to love in a guy who relishes your meanness more than the lovely dress you pick out for a date
Who makes you sharpen your wits rather than file your nails
Who loves the fact that your hair is messy
And that you crack dirtier jokes than him.
See, I determine not to get carried away, but he always carries me away
And so do my thoughts,
When my mind defocuses from the world and focuses on his inch upon inch of perfection.
Which is not perfect.
And that makes my thoughts a tiny castle of contradictions.
Just like him and me.
Me and him.
The two of us.
Here is me reciting the lines above. https://soundcloud.com/tanzila/call-this-a-ballad