Call this a ballad.

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

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