I believe if I ever found it, they would try and destroy it, because even the smallest dream held like a pebble in my hand isn’t safe from the cruelest of erosion.
I also think if I discovered the seven seas in his eyes and deep currents under the gaze, a person dressed as Moses would divide it down the middle.
The lessons I’ve learned is that for every butterfly is a ginormous child with a jar who is ready to close the lid and prevent precious moments from fluttering my way.
But, of course, the container is transparent and I can see it scatter around and try to escape, only it’s me who suffocates from such tireless efforts.
For I am too aware to give them the benefit, but not strong enough to deal with every break and bust of waves that say goodbye, and letting go seems impossible.
And my endless search for perfection leaves me flawed and cracked beneath their boot, like frigid ice or eggshells thrown about the linoleum floor.
Sometimes the things I desire end up broken, or is it the wretched who are drawn to me? As moths to a dull flame or ghosts to a medium guiding misdirection.
With screws screwed over and instability mistaken for flamboyance, they, too, crave that life can fall into place and not pour off the sides of bar top plateaus flat as beer.
It never fails, heads or tails, two sides of a coin dropped down a well and all surprises become bleak in the horizon where the sun sets and rises again and again.
Even in the mirror I see a conquest which always seems out of reach, because no matter how much one changes gravity is evident and goals become more difficult.
Sometimes I wonder if really there is anything to destroy, because what if perfection doesn’t exist? Of course we’re fat and pale and wired by tablets prescribed.
But there has to be a place where folded arms open and vulnerability unravels like scrolls with written hearts on the soul traveling through the universe.
There has to be a destination in which somebody tells you that you’re perfect, regardless of imperfections taking up every single doomed threshold.
Perhaps I can acquire this fantasy in a purple desert lying horizontal below tiger-orange skies inside my own solitude and silent sounds.
And the realization hits all at once, for it was already in me and every animal on the Earth’s blemished face, a little bird trapped in my rib cage.
So I’ve stopped looking for perfection and now pray someone will notice it flying around within my nestled, wandering spirit.