I am not perfect.
I am flawed.
I am irrational.
I am over-analytical.
All of it, the rush, it spills into me, and I take it intra-personally.
I take in the smell of the wind and crave the taste of the cappucino,
dancing in the breeze.
I dance in the triumphant depth of the azure sea, trying not to let the dark abyss
reach out and touch me.
I touch the gentle water in the pond and wait for a racing fish to kiss my fingertip.
I kiss the shadow of success that will always fade before I reach it.
Nothing will ever be good enough for me.
I will never be good enough for me.
Through his eyes, I am perfect.
His perfect eyes stare at me in such a way that I feel it without meeting his glance.
And know that he will love me.
For who I am, and who I will never be.

Autumn Richards 2001