Your soul ricochets off her, 
into a corpse  
and I've told you,
it is flaws that create perfection,
It is perfections that are defective
It is your flowers that turn foggy, 
you can rip your stems, 
but you can't mend them,
you'll find they are useless with 
superglue
if your heart is in that body,
I love that body 

And I will have you know, 
it has nothing to do with 
the wizard and the witch
in the back of my mind, 
for they are happily in love,
they laugh together
on the center of the highest hill,
while sipping on tea,
who else do you think I can rely on 
to crochet the blanket 
to hide that of my own
faulty?