She’s having a bad day, and tells him so.
That she’s just flawed, and full of dearth and lack:
He says to her, at ceasing of her flow:
Perfection called, it wants its essence back.
I know no one more capable or smart;
So good at all the many things you do.
I know nobody with a better heart,
Or anyone who’s half as good as you.
But yet, I know your troubled with it all;
I sympathize with you, in honesty.
But I want you to know, whate’er befall,
That you’re perfection, always, love