If you don’t love her in the morning, you don’t love her at all. You only love the way she does her makeup.
Isn’t it you simply adore the way her mascara glides off a little with her tears?
When you make her cry with laughter.
And her hair… no hair stylist can give it such a volume as you give it yourself when you tousle it for her during a happy-ending pillow fight.
Isn’t her less-than-perfect complexion sensational when you get to know the geography of her moles, and the two small wrinkles on her bottom are like the beds of two ecstatic rivers flowing out of the spring of happiness.
Every morning, she says she doesn’t want you to see her like that: I’m ugly at seven o’clock in the morning.
Not if seven in the morning finds you in my bed…
The sleep-heavy eyes? They’re still inward staring, to the soul in which I wallow like a king. A palace I don’t share with anybody.
It’s a glorious morning. With her.
It’s worth killing the alarm-clock only to be able to enjoy the image of her sleeping. A less-than-perfect angel with a black wing.
A perfect piece of sculpture with a broken corner.
Or to phone her mother. To thank her that she exists.
Or to sneak out on tiptoe to make breakfast for her.
A breakfast as less-than-perfect as she sees herself each and every morning.
We are nothing but two less-than-perfects fitting together perfectly.
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