Perfect Imperfect

I’ve met someone who forces me from all the rules I’ve come to know,

Self-mandated contemplation of my own thoughts.

Pure emotion mingled with sensations of the flesh,

Self-examination of mental and erotic proportions.

I wonder less if he returns the sentiment and more about how I can devour him ... stimulate the charges within him, as he has with me.

Even his weakness is powerful, shying away from the uncomfortable with laughter that is so urgent, you want to rescue him and love him, all at the same time.

Not out of need or pity, but with a petition to some active power now within your reach, that summons you out loud because you are ready.

The rules and voices of doubt are never silent, just quiet and weak; whereas, once before they screamed out loud, continuously.

You feel empowered to change and dispel the voices of opposition and resistance.

Just the other night he said, "being with someone is not only to be elevated but to help them up when they fall ... not to rush love, but to be sure that you can bathe yourself in the feeling afterwards".

With him there are no hours or days, just moments, because he is the perfect imperfect, the interaction of the opposite and complementary principles that make you moist to his touch and active in thought to his words.

But there are no words, ironically, to qualify what he has exposed me to, himself, unknowingly.

In his imperfection, he is beautiful.

I tell him this and his only response, “really?"

Some friendships that we have bonded and broken overlap, and in a single moment those rules of mine that I am working to evict, make me think that I may not be what he chooses.

And then as quickly as these thoughts arise they evaporate, the sweet hunger that I feel for him takes over ... and under ... voluntarily, I suffocate in him.

He’s like an almost perfect diamond where the prismatic color palate against his flawed surfaces is his primary source of beauty, the unknown that I want to know, for him to unravel the knots within me.

He’s warm and thick, tall and strong, hesitant and bashful and within all that, I come alive.

I want forever yet I am content to relish in this dream of reality should my soul not be sufficient to quench his thirst, and I take with it the pain that comes, having to experience and let go.

Slowly and at times, swiftly, letting go of insecurities that seem so old I willfully submit to him, although fear sometimes forces me to deny this him, this challenge before me.

An extension of all my pain, power and weakness made real before me.

In a reflection so true and uniquely his own, all I am left with is a naked silence, a shortness of breath.

Within that moment of perfect imperfect, I am content in what he offers me: a call to engage myself, himself, ourselves to that next level of hierarchical need.

He gives and holds me to do the same.

To give pleasure to the senses and the flesh – an earnest attempt toward artistry, truthfulness, and unique brilliance.

The question I once asked myself of “what can he do for me?” lost in a paradigm shift of “What can we be to one another?” where as much I get, I want to give of myself and honor the him that he shares with me - where I feel wonderful and complete, confused and unsure, nice and nauseous, uplifted and questioned.

If time were to change and I were granted the opportunity to re-experience this rapid accumulation of knowledge and exploration, this sweet sickness of unspeakable affection and nervous delight - I wouldn’t change a thing.

But to secure one additional moment in the perfect imperfect in the desire to make a pair.