Calling someone a perfect angel is bullshit, no ones a perfect angel. People are flawed, imperfect beings that need to be loved for who they really are. Angel, if they’re really an angel then your love doesn’t mean anything, everybody loves angels. A real compliment isn’t angel, a real compliment is loving somebody even though you see them. Fuck “I love you because you’re perfect” how about “I love you even though I know you had a panic attack at macaroni grill for ordering the wrong entree”.
You were wrong, my love. It was my fault all along, but I didn’t see it till now. I didn’t let us breathe, grow into each other all comfortable like, but pushed and sighed and moved heaven and earth till we were both spent. And still I didn’t give up. I didn’t listen, really listen to the sound of a tear rolling down your cheek or the unspoken worries about what we were, where we were.
You were wrong, my love. It was about you, always, to the end. I didn’t show it too well, I know. But you must believe me when I say that I can’t imagine where I’d be without you. Probably mixed up all sideways between the misplaced weed of angry that struggles and contends to consume the core of me. Except that it’s gone, plucked out by what you taught me, to make me a little bit of a better man now. Full of mistakes, but looking beyond the darkness to a dying light that shimmers above, stuck amidst the wonder.