Perfect

So what if we weren't joking?

That morning in my bed, when I was about to make us pancakes before finding out I had bought the wrong kind of flour. "What are you doing in Baltimore?", my friend asked.

"You're making pancakes for your future husband!" you roared on your Bear voice and I came back to bed, laughing while you held me close.

We looked into each other's eyes and both our souls were there,
both our hearts,
both our minds as you babbled along about the Queen Honey, the King Bear and the cubs.

(I just teared up remembering it, it was so sweet and pure.)

I left the bed towards the kitchen, wearing my cheap blue top on which you said I looked "gorgeous"
(are you sure you weren't drunk, sweet love?).
There were still a couple bottles of Belgian beer standing on my table as I walked through the rug where we met.

And it was perfect.

And I could keep on describing almost every second we spent with each other,
the hot water that poured over our heads,
the white magic that covered our first ever walk outside,
the kisses we shared the first time we said goodbye,
and it wouldn't matter because I would be saying the same thing,
over and over again.

That it was perfect.

So, what if we weren't joking?

(What if it all comes true one day?)

Oh, darling, it wouldn't make any difference.
Because, you know? It would be perfect.
It would be perfect as well.