Monday, March 31, 2014

A perfect 10

"Who is like, a perfect 10 to you?"
"Oh geez, that’s hard. I don’t know."
"Just think, a perfect 10."
You said I was a perfect 10 once.
You said I was all ten fingers, 100%.
I’m not your solid A anymore, though.
Maybe because you didn’t mean it the first time,
or because I’m different now –
maybe because I’m not yours.
"Not counting personality - just looks, who is a perfect 10?"
"Ok just looks-"
Is that how it works?
I wasn’t sure if we could split it up like that.
I want to be a whole 10.
I want the sum of all my stuff to make some sort of wholeness.
I don’t think you can dissect it,
like a formaldehyde-soaked frog in Biology.
I hope someone tells me I’m a 10 again someday,
and I hope they mean my jeans and my paintings.
I hope they mean my whole string of teeth - smiling, and my laugh.
I hope they mean my hands, and my weakness for old movies.
I hope they mean the way I smell, and the way I kiss them by the nose.
I hope they mean me, and I hope they mean all of me
is “a perfect 10”.

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