On your left shoulder is the only flaw we can find,
a blemish on your landscape otherwise untarnished,
the only mark that says you’re more than a dream,
more than an angelic representative of perfection.
We could stare at it hours stacked end to end
and never tire from worrying that you’re too perfect,
too finely created for two who never seem to escape
the ever-churning blades of living that spit out
eddies and currents that push and pull us along sideways,
fearful of uneasy perfection, your mark the salve.