perfection
perfection is a shallow myth,
built on a base of ice and stone, she stands cold but unshivering.
undefined by pain or loss,
perfection has not the tears to cry.
she is a flawed, lonely desire.
a spirit so self-absorbed, she would not even know
her own lack of fault.
alone,
she is an uncracked, unweathered statue,
smooth,
cold to the touch.
looking into a mirror that does not see her own reflection,
looking to a horizon that is unmapped,
her own, uncharted lack of desire.
she never reaches out,
complete in her own being.
there is no need to be filled, or to fill.
it does not ache at night,
there are no voices calling out, beckoning,
no implication of lacking.
there is no expression.
no waiting, no wondering, no longing.
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