Perfection stopped being what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Instead she walked around barefooted with her hair bewildered and her blue eyes dancing with your soul.
You found her in little strands on your pillowcases and car seats and floating around in your head.
She rolled you up, tucked you in, turned her back on you when it got rough.
She fell silent, just like you.
Sans peace in loneliness.
Fragility woven into her like she herself was woven into you.
She smiled.
Smiles that traced your skin lightly.
Smiles that dug their way through your flesh and made your chest feel bigger. Safer.
Perfection wasn't what you spoke about on Saturday evenings.
Perfection wasn't perfect.
Perfection was all you had needed all those Saturday evenings.
Her.