anon
Love

A perfect lover

An apple ripens, a flower blooms and withers, water freezes and melts, wind comes to a standstill, wine becomes wholesome, a song becomes a memory, a kiss becomes softer with age.

I have loved ‘perfect’ women, and they changed. And I changed. We didn’t know what perfect was anymore. I gravitate towards disarming dents, scars of war, fierce rage and undying thirst for what lies ahead. It’s an eternal all-consuming fire, as a person molts, breaking through her own past self. Few things matter.

And she is far from perfect, she is flawed, she screams, she cries, she is afraid, she doubts, she loves with abandon, loyal to a fault, holds on with her life but lets go when you least expect it, only to fall and rise again.

She is not perfect because you never know what she is, character of a mutable flame. Burns everything it owns and disappears off into the night when time comes. We miss the light and warmth, but how do you describe light, how do you describe warmth?

I used to think a candle is perfect, so is a cosy winter hearth, filling the living room with light. Desirable character, but controlled. Predictable. Does good, knows what not to touch. A candle won’t burn you down, a fireplace won’t bring your house down. Comfortable in its limitations.

A flame does not distinguish. It’s self fulfilling. But it’s not perfect, because it always lacks, it always is in motion, embodying transition, the sheer reason why it even exists. And once that’s achieved, it’s gone. Not perfect. Never perfect.

You know what turns me on? Caramel lips and wildfire in a flame.

Two drops of water form one, seamlessly.
You cannot tell one from another.
Like you and me.

They may taste different, but for a while.
How they hold on, once they are one.
Like you and me.

Oceans speak to her.
The skies speak to me.
Horizon is but an illusion of a kiss.

Why would I kiss your artist dents?

Dents are not your lips, not cheeks. They are like a gentle ‘boo boo’ on your hand, a freckle, a burn that left behind the teeniest of spots. I would kiss your hand if we are formally introduced at a party. I would kiss your dents as a humble celebration of you.

I wonder
whose arms would I run and fall into
if I were drunk
in a room with everyone
I have ever loved. 
― Anonymous

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