Waiting For Perfect

The life I have left, I fear shall not be long. So perfect may come, in the form of happiness, or love. Or both together. I can not think of a better time for perfect than that moment before a heart stops beating, when a person dwells on the past and takes note that perfect was life. And there is no longer need for hoping. The perfect hope shall only last for a second. Then it shall drift away, along with the life that was perfect. Though it may be said that perfect does not exist, I believe different. It is the ups and the downs. The happiness and the tears. It is the simplicity of a beating heart, the complexity of an intake of air. Perfect is not what we hoped it would be, but much more.