The Perfect Sunday
We read books in the afternoon
A lazy afternoon
Spent in each other’s company
With no words necessary
She loved him but knew it won’t work. He loved her and prayed she’d stay.
Epic love can’t last forever, she said. His reply, “memories are photoshopped.”
He was poor. So he played sting to serenade her.
25 years later sting performed at their anniversary.
A nameless faceless girl
Sheltered him in the night
And yet the other woman recieved
Yellow roses for this light
She watched in silent sorrow
And waited for tomorrow
When the couple wed in front of an audience
And she became the woman of no consequence
It isn’t that you’re perfect
It isn’t that we are perfect
It is that you make my world perfect