All this time,

all I ever tried,

was to get the perfect numbers

on report cards, paychecks and on my waistline.

 

All this time,

all my measures

were done by scales and grades that were predefined.

 

All this time,

all I ever wanted,

was a perfectly crafted story –

A hand to hold mine

while we slowly sipped wine

on terrace, and soaked in the moonlight.

 

And sure the miracles happened,

but after the plans failed,

after I stopped weighing my happiness against numbers.

 

Another one is trying to sneak in from the corner,

waiting for me to lose another count.

A perfect life wants to embrace me,

after I let go of the measured perfection, that devil in disguise.

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