The Absent-Minded Professor and the Perfectionist
She balances each detail on a clock’s face.
Every moment filed neatly in its place.
No task too small for her hawk-eyed grace.
His spectacles slip from his thoughtful nose,
His shoes are mismatched, his coat half-closed.
Her to-do lists march in single-file rows,

Equations sit where his dinner should be,
And he names his cat after gravity.

And when night falls and silence reigns,
when the moon peeks through the pane,
She finds her fortress full of strain,
She gazes at chaos behind her walls.
For her heart like a fractured mirror falls,
For him, the weight of the unreachable calls.

Though he solves riddles none can see.
He talks to walls, forgets his tea.

As time betrays, her plans turn ghostly thin,
she longs for the place dreams begin again.
And somehow, she’s drawn to that scatter in him.
She colors his clocks; he scatters her schemes—
And somewhere between, they build better dreams.
He, once lost in numbers and broken things—

He spills his ink, she picks it up;
He trips, she laughs, and rights the cup.

Two mismatched souls, by the world defined,
She needs his laughter the calm she finds,
inside her order—his wonder entwined.
Not perfect, not polished, not planned to be—
He finds home in the way she steeps his tea.
Their love, in its tenderness, set them free.

Yet not out of order, nor from a plan—
But stitched from wonder, hand in hand.