I remember thinking, as your thin frame stood at the
bottom of my bed, “this is rare”. I thought you were
perfect. Because to me, perfection is what pleases me.
I am reduced to real tears when perfection isn’t with me.
We know what perfection is by virtue of nothing being perfect
but I know what it is because I’ve seen it, and I’ve seen it
betray me too. I remember everything, and when I remember
you at the bottom of my bed, I remember how you paraded
her in front of me, and I wonder why you would do that,
not knowing how I would react, guessing I wouldn’t need to
find out. Real perfection probably doesn’t exist, now that I
think about it. Disappointed, I was no longer calling you perfect.
It’s the same with perfection as it is with obsession. You
are reading your poetry to a book shop full of listeners.
You are singing songs in my bedroom to impress me.
I wish perfection existed so your flaws didn’t have to exist.