PerfectionA Poem by Brett Mooreperfection. all knees and elbows to the touch wet like the first time i ran home in thick rain i was too young to remember to look up or the soft kiss of love's lips on my skin contrasting the burning heat of summer in the wet woods by the lake at Wolf Creek i was all elbows and knees no scars to landmark my history each piece of patchwork less perfect than the next no crooked nosed smile or chipped tooth still months away from Darren Brewer's basement and the uppercut that fell heavily on the tail of two miller lights two birds with one stone cold throw i fell, stood up, we laughed like children my mother cried quietly elbows and knees are familiar with bruises a kind of uncomfortable familiarity that begs concrete mercy in a fall a simple, heavy memory a hand on a hot stove a foot turned the wrong way by a root i wasn't running from anything it was the joy of the breeze meeting sweat that kept me moving the blood dried, scabbed and healed my skin holds the memory ----------- You never forget the firsts. The first time you keep on falling, you don't remember how long or why you began to fall in the first place. Was it her smile, framed in dimples? The way her hands communicate something more than words when her fingertips rest lightly on the back of your neck? The first time your intention fails to meet with meaning. There's a misfire and the white flag can't unfold quick enough to satisfy that climbing, chain linked fence fending off apologies. She's crying and your stomach screams to be forgiven but words can't make it past the weight sitting on your chest, so you vomit instead. Seeking compassion that isn't yet strong enough to climb the fence, cross that empty field where you wait, flag in hand, ready to humbly accept the terms of your surrender. The first time her words fail her. Brown eyes meet yours and she's begging you to understand that she's forgotten how to breath without you. And the only way she can fall asleep is in your bed where the bad dreams and days can't find her anymore. You can feel it in her fragile grip, she's a part of you and for the first time, you are not afraid of permanence. ----------- I will reach the end of days in the firm grip of a lover. I will feel the simple pains or pleasures, heralded by each new ray of sunlight, each new drop of rain. I will face the inevitable with a veterans confidence, our fingers tied tightly together. And whether or not the hand loses strength, her eyes made a promise that death can't pardon, if our hearts truly believe in perfection. © 2017 Brett MooreAuthor's Note
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Added on May 9, 2013Last Updated on October 29, 2017 Author
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