He is perfect.
From his hair to his smile,
to the way his body shakes when he laughs.

The deep vibrato of his voice a soothing comfort,
like home in a wave of foreign,
his hugs are warm,
like the feeling of a summer afternoon when you were young.

But he is perfect.
He wouldn't know the way you yearn for his heart,
He is wrapped up in the fame of his art.

It's no fault of his own,
he's perfect and he's not yours to mourn.

He likes the blonde girl.
The skinny one with the perfect smile.
She's perfect too.
Perfect together while you bask in the loneliness of another broken heart that no one can heal or break further apart.