She wants to capture everything she sees, everything she feels, everything beautiful–perfectly. She waits to find the perfect words, the perfect line, the perfect verse. She does not write.
Then, she thinks of love. She thinks of the intensity of joy, of pleasure, of peace. Her memory unfurls and she thinks of the tears, anger, jealousy. It is one of the most beautiful experiences and one of the most imperfect.
Yet she can’t help but feel that it is perfect. And her definition of perfection cracks.
She writes. She does not know whether her words are perfect. She hopes they are beautiful.