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.