Homers are fans who defend their hometown team,
Through every losing season and every broken dream.
They'll argue calls were wrong or refs were blind,
Knowing in their hearts that it was over the line.
That's me with you except here's the twist,
The imperfections that you think exist,
Are only illusions I see through clear,
To the perfect woman standing here.
The philosophy that flawlessness exists somewhere,
Is like a balloon full of hot air.
You are more than just a knockoff of the ideal,
Perfection lies in that which is real.
You measure yourself against some invisible score,
Picking apart the things that make me love you more.
You say you're too sensitive and the world is too loud,
Like the thunder crashing through the clouds.
But you're tough in all the ways that count,
You take it all in and dish it back out.
The things you think are barely there,
are beautiful, however fair.
You think that they're too light to see,
Butt they're the second thing I notice when you look at me.
Your perfectionism drives you every day,
And you make me better in that stubborn way.
Your standards lift me up, keep me sincere,
You raise the bar just by being there.
I am a Homer, but not the guy who lives for beer,
Yellow with two hairs between his ears,
But we both married way out of our league, it's true,
And I wonder every day how I ended up with you.
I am a Homer like the hometown fans who make it clear,
Their team can do no wrong year after year.
Who paint their faces and bare their chests,
never questioning whether their team is the best.
The crowd that cheers through every losing streak,
That finds the silver lining when the outlook's bleak.
You're my team, my favorite player, my winning home run,
And loving your imperfections is so much fun.
You're not a fantasy floating somewhere in the sky,
You're better than perfection, you're every reason why.
I wake up every morning grateful for this life,
Hopelessly, happily blinded by my more than perfect wife.
This post is part of the Life branch of jackrosewrites.com. The thread that connects everything starts with the manifesto: There Is No Escape Room.