Perfection is not perfect

bee-b
bee-b
Sep 7, 2018 · 1 min read

You kiss my lips, and suddenly you taste my pain. It tastes of the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

My hope, of course. Whose else? I saw something that wasn't there because my imagination got the better of me, and it cost me years. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months of my life spent daydreaming about you and I, this perfect romance that was never meant to be because perfection only exists in suspended animation.

Oh, my rational self knows that if we could be perfect the world would be utterly boring, but to a hopeful heart perfection seems like an achievable goal, which makes the bittersweet real life all the more real. When you kiss my lips and taste my pain all I can think about is that perfection was never perfect after all.

It took me years to realize I was in love with someone of my own making, that I did you a disservice by trying to make you be who I thought you were, but that's not the issue when we finally kiss. When our tongues are intertwined and our hearts are beating fast together I finally come to see that I made you love me by decepting you - not to mention myself - and this realization shames me to my core.

As much as I enjoy your mint-scented breath, I'm sure all you can smell in mine is regret.

I'm sorry you taste of hope.

I'm sorry I taste of pain.

bee-b

Written by

bee-b

I listen, I cry, I write