Repeat, retake, start over. Erase and redraw until it is exactly the same. That is not art, art is not perfect, art is mistakes. Messy and unpredictable; like your hair after you wake up from a nap, your curls loosening in the wind, your laughter as your head falls back. Like my crooked teeth, my pig snort-laugh, my mixing up of words. Your lyrics as words flow from your brain, or me getting lost but being led to a new path. All things that weren't necessarily planned but made something beautiful. For you, I'd wish to be perfect, as still and extravagant as a woman on a canvas yet you've told me that nothing is perfect and you were right, you told me that I was worth it even though I wasn't perfect. You burn brighter than the sun and make me see things in a new light, and I might dare to call it love. You are art and I would never dare call you perfect, but you're worth it.
