He would have shades of grey at his temples.
And eyes that smiles

and lingers



when he looks at me.




He would offer me his hand

every time we leave the car

taking pride in the exact condition

of his precious

little wife.



And I would know

every story

his scars

are hiding



gently

in their shape



The pride I'd feel


when he'd come home

that quirk of the brow


telling me that today,

he out-rivaled


the world




And being his good girl

would be the most



useless bliss



I'd ever know.



Yes, my perfection

might not look like yours

or even have a shape or face



No, perfection is

how he'd make me feel

each morning, each afternoon

each weekend, each lifetime


and every quivering breath




in the darkness.