Utopia

In a perfect world, you are making me coffee, just the way I like, point two five cream, and point five sugar. It is a perfect world because I can hear you sing and we know how you hate it. It is 7 in the morning and we’ve woken up early because that’s what we do in a perfect world. Love happens in little moments in a perfect world. We collect these mementos and god knows we have a jar filled with these. You look at me every day and don’t wish for anyone else and since it is our perfect world, I wish the same. We move out of this place, we go to work, we come back home and it is perfect. It is perfect. Is it perfect? I swear I saw you gag on the soufflé I made, I hear your audible annoyance when I asked you about your favorite anime. There are moments in our conversations that are lopsided, flaky, downright awkward. There are moments in our jar that are okay, just okay. We reach out for each other’s hands but somehow they get twisted instead of getting entangled. It is like being handcuffed with a tree and the tree never grows. But it’s a perfect world so we go to sleep and wake up with you making me coffee and I wishing for no one but you and it’s perfect.