if love were perfect,  
it would never ache,  
no misunderstandings,  
no hearts to break.  

each word would flow  
like a gentle stream,  
every glance a promise,  
every touch a dream.  

there’d be no storms,  
only sunlit days,  
no silent treatments,  
just warm embraces.  

but maybe it’s the flaws,  
the cracks that we find,  
that teach us to cherish  
the love that’s designed.  

for in the imperfect,  
we truly see,  
the beauty of love,  
in its authenticity.

I haven't forgotten what your smile looks like,  
the way it breaks open the sky in halves,  
how it once carved a path through my ribs,  
a gentle cut that never stopped bleeding.  

I haven't forgotten the curve of your lips,  
a half-moon rising in the darkness,  
pulling the tides of my body to shore,  
reaching inside to stitch the torn seams.  

I haven't forgotten the way you tasted,  
like salt and sugar mixed in a kiss,  
your laughter a bird trapped in the room,  
desperate to escape but never willing.  

I haven't forgotten the silence you left,  
the echo of that smile in empty rooms,  
a ghost haunting the space between breaths,  
and still, it lingers, a wound unhealed.

Pat, pat, pat—a constant rhythm as the raindrops collide against her umbrella, shielding her like a knight from countless tiny foes. She goes about her day, a bouquet of vibrant flowers picked along her travels cradled in her arms, whispering sweet nothings to herself.

It’s the details she longs to capture and hold forever. She examines the delicate wet spot on a petal, magnifying each perfect imperfection—the subtle curves, the soft hues—because in that reflection, she sees herself, and there’s beauty in that too.