She’s an anomaly.
With a mere touch or glance,
she’s capable of making my heart flee my chest cavity.
I’ve spent hours simply watching on
as it takes flight.
Soaring with uninhibited joy,
Recklessly reveling in a freedom that feels so right.

She’s a rare, vintage vinyl,
Bruised and scarred by past misuse.
But music connoisseurs, like myself,
look beyond the observable wounds.
As she is played,
rousing melodies croon.
Her beauty transcends apparent charm,
But lies in the sum of every tune.
Every note captivates.
She is a priceless device,
One meant to be treasured,
And more valuable than she can realize.

She isn’t perfect,
Not in a long shot.
Perfection, in almost any case, is impossible.
An ideal we’ve always been taught.
But I believe if we chase perfection,
that we can catch brilliance en route.
Some may doubt my certainty, some may call me naïve
But my anomaly is living proof.