Cerulean

Perfectly Artificial

I used to have a massive crush
on this person from church.

Their clothes were straightened,
their hair was perfect to each and every strand,
the whitest smile,
socks that matched.
They were like creamy silk ribbons,
trimmed with white lace.
They were an anomaly,
a photo of the most beautiful sunrise.
So naturally,
like anyone else,
I wanted to be their friend.

I asked,
"So what's your zodiac sign?"
They laughed,
replying,
"I don't do that sort of thing."

They sat straight,
shoulders round,
the crown of perfection never slipping
off their head.

They didn't have a favourite book,
they acted slightly different with everyone,
adapting to each vision of beauty
(almost like a siren,
and how they changed before every man).

And I watch,
observing,
witnessing this.
I learn something,
for once.

That maybe perfection isn't the photo
of the sunrise,
that maybe it's experiencing the sunrise
for yourself.
Feeling the warmth on your face,
not a cold copy in your hands.
That maybe,
maybe,
perfect isn't all what it's cracked up to be.