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."

"Honestly-"

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”.