Perfect Temperature

“What if” stays on my mind,

Almost as casual as birds chirping their early morning hymns.

Or I’m just incredible at keeping track of things uncommonly seen by the naked eye,

Just hoping it’ll be the perfect time and not a next life.

The longer we stray away, the stronger and sweeter our bond becomes,

Aging like fine wine in a cellar lost to time.

Strikingly deep to the point where I can see myself inside of you;

What’s staring back is super reflective.

Reminds me of a silver spoon.

We just patch it and keep humming to a simple tune.

At times, it starts to bloom, so we refrigerate it

In the coldest part of our souls in an effort to preserve, not break.

You still haven’t noticed it yet?

It’s closer to how water transforms into mist—

How it dissipates when our friends are around, or even the ones we date.

It keeps you secretly observant with a poker face,

A flashback to standing at a microwave.

Hoping and praying you punched in the right numbers for the perfect plate—

Unnoticed and random, like food poisoning with a pending stomachache.

It’s like our bodies yearning for much more after the perfect date,

The intensity of a moment almost as physical as the shot of a loaded gun as you brace.

The cold side of your pillow where you plant your face.

I’ve given you all these examples, and you still don’t understand

How many stars aligned for what seemed to be fate.

They say, “a dime’s a dozen,” but you’re rarer than a two-dollar bill.

Maybe I was lucky you came around twice…

Yet intrepidly, I say unto you:

“Third time’s the charm—if multiplied by 12—

Because I could see you 36 times and still be stunned by you.”

But we both know I’m greedy.

Dare I say possessive with looks like yours,

And you’re still unconvinced?

How the universe constantly puts us in a cinch,

And we still can’t get it together and catch the hints.

But it’s just me that needs to do better…

The perfect—wait, that’s too fictional.

The word perfect is relative to the eyes of the beholder.

What I’m hinting at is something more realistic.

Something created from the beauty in the madness,

Something so sturdy and strong that it even cuts diamonds.

Too bold? Too direct?

Would you prefer something softer, like a bouquet of sunflowers

Under a sunset—or a sunrise?

Will it help you see the future through my eyes,

While I get lost in yours?

Or would you like me to sing to you while playing a sweet chord?

Hmm… is that too sweet?

Perhaps you want something more bad,

Something more brooding and dangerous?

If you’re Selina Kyle, then I’m Bruce.

And if you want to keep things classy, we can put on the suits.

Is our perfect becoming a visual delight?

Visualize a moon as beautiful as newlyweds on a honeymoon night…

How sharp yet how soft your hugs are,

Touching my soul with your naked arms.

Nothing compares to fresh coffee in the morning;

It leaves me in Spain without the ‘s.’

I just want a few once upon a times in my lifetime with you.

If Sandman is selling dreams, I’m stockpiling visions of you.

Nothing like Raven-Symoné—

Because these aren’t images of disaster.

They’re pictures of a happy home,

With a fairy who granted the wish of not feeling lonely.

Not to be confused with being alone,

Because a couple at peace can be as magical as a wishbone.

It’s the perfect temperature for our fun adventure,

While I play the flute like Peter Pan,

With Tinker Bell to accompany me.