Lovesick

I thought you were absolutely perfect –
pretty. smart. sensible and yet wild.
But when I said that, you screeched
in my face and told me perfect

does not exist. I wanted to wonder
and wonder about a world with no
perfection and yet, you forced me not to.
You hate that word too much.

What are you, if not perfect? What
are we, if not made of perfection
out of our apparent flaws? And why
can I not ask you to correct my

assumptions of you that started as
a dream. You are my dream, honey
and I’m sorry, but I fell in love
with a fantasy.