There’s this perfect thing in-front of me.

It’s mine, if I want it; I have the guarantee.

I can’t pick out any flaws—there are no hidden faults.

Yet. When I start to think, my mind stops— abruptly halts.

It’s a feeling in my gut that tells me, “Not all is well.”

As if my mind is playing tricks on me, while my heart has more to tell.

I set out to ignore it—in hopes that it will leave.

Because. It’s perfect. Truly perfect. Sometimes I wish I was naive.