It seems in this day,
Perfect has been lost in translation,
The term holds so many expectations,
And has created a nation of sad dames.

So it goes, far too many dictionaries,
Define perfect as “without flaw”,
Which in turn leads self-proclaimed faultlessness,
To seek out a mate who is near the same.

In the lady’s endeavor,
There is a sort of awakening,
A trip and fall, if you will,
Into the reality of perfection—

Though he wakes up with sleep lines outlining his face,
Drinks his coffee with too much sugar and not enough cream,
Doesn’t have a chest that is meticulously sculpted;
Perhaps he forgets to empty the trash on Mondays,
Neglects to change a diaper or two, leaving it up to you,
Dates and times slip his mind all too often—
Though all of this may be undeniably true,
There is a question or a few that you must ask yourself:

Does he remember his first words at the break of day are to be “I love you”?
Would he walk through an orange roaring fire for your rescue?
Do his kisses send you soaring to the fluffiest of clouds?
How about his eyes? Does the color suit you?

It is now, after you’ve inquired to yourself,
That “perfect” can accurately be described,
Though he may not be what the big screen displays,
He is, in his uniquest of ways,
Absolutely, inexplicably, ridiculously,
Perfect to you.