she said
perfection is an illusion
i answered back
it was all
an illusion
a delusion
a misguided attempt
to make sense
of senseless shapes
light bouncing
off rods and cones
into a chemical spill
in a dome of bone
and blunt force

she was right
perhaps perfection
is an illusion
but that doesn’t explain
how i see it
in her every move
how it calls to me
from beyond
the skeletal remains
of remaining conscious
in a state
of conscientious

it is the fool
seeking solutions
in the warm solution
of salty tears
and stagnant memories
knee deep
in wonder
at how quickly
it all can go
with no warning lights
on the dash
dashing in between
traffic jams
and incidental reminders
of what isn’t

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