i've learned the hard way
that life will never be
as beautiful as poetry
and that we will never be
as perfect as we sound
when squished between
similes and metaphors
so while we don't fit together
quite as well as puzzle pieces
and you sometimes
might not complete me
as well as a cup of coffee
my hand still feels
quite nice in yours

and i don't need a poem to say that

Sleepy Sounds-
cacophony of the
shared studio apartment
An island of misfit
toys
Some straight from
the factory with
missing parts
Some with
limbs lost over
time
All wandered/fled/abandoned
here
neglected/broken/discarded
Five sets of
eyes
finally closed to
imperfection/rejection/expectation
All found now
in this place
Whole

There you stand
In all your gloriously impossible perfection
Absolutely s t u n n i n g
Skin glowing brighter than the moon
In a clear
Night sky

I wish someone saw me the way I see you
I know love
Is something we will never share
And that's ok
but
I will always look at you
Like you are the moon
Because
You were the first
to make me realize
I CAN love
And that is a beautiful thing

The imperfection
Exists in comparison.

The perfection
Exists in freedom
To be
What you are
As you are.

Perfection is being content in ones own world

Perfection is perceiving the cracks in the wall as a piece of art
Withered autumnal branches
Dreaming of blooms in spring

Perfection sought, to please the world
Leaves one imperfect and discontented
In this, perception oriented perfect world

“I’m sorry”
I whisper.  Over. And over.
A reflex when things are not okay.
Because no matter what I’m always to blame.

It's perfect

He threw compliments at you
until they stung.

He kissed you
until there were violet bruises
blooming across your arms.

The fingers he traced
up and down your back
turned into thorns.

His words morphed into
bombs.

It's perfect.
Until it's not.