Dear Perfect..

In and of your actuality you are not.

Like many other things in this world,

you hold many different definitions

in many different minds. You change

Forms as fast as the smoke from my

Parents cigarettes that way.

But, I believe, each diverse reasoning is

still linked together in more ways

than one actually gives themselves

the time to think for.

Because you are still not

'perfect' even in their own mind.

You don't exist

in this world,

or universe,

or galaxy.

In fact, it is a bit absurd that

You even exist when

there is nothing to live up to your name.

There is no such thing as ‘perfect’.

If I could exchange you

For something else..

Something more..

More closer than intangible..

But not tangible

I would choose 'real'.

Because, real.

Real is reality.

Real is here

And now and it is

Going nowhere else

But here.

Real is as real as it sounds.

Real is so, so, so far away,

Yet also brushing it's lips

Against your own.

Real is fleeting and arbitrary,

But vast and suffocating.

Real is here to stay.

Real is perfect.

Real is better than perfect.

Real is ugly and unchanging,

But also beautiful and conservative.

Real is below our expectations,

Something we couldn't have wanted

As much as we needed.

We appreciate it,

even without saying it aloud.

Real is scary and dangerous.

Like a young adult,

Fresh and prim out of high school,

being thrust into adulthood

With reassuring smiles

But pleading eyes that tell

Them to wait for the call.

Don't call them.

Real is dangerous.

As fatal as a heart attack.

As sudden as a stroke.

Deadly as a homicide.

Real is.

Real is us.

You and I.

Them and they.

He and she.

It and that.

We are ugly,

And dangerous,

And beautiful,

And deadly,

And fleeting,

And vast,

And fatal.

And.

You.

We are you.

To each other.

To me.

To them.

To us.

To you.

We are perfect.

And maybe not to everyone.

But to someone.

Something.

With keen eyes and

An unopening mouth.

We are you.

We are real.