Near Perfect

Worlds click in such strange ways.
Neighbors become lovers become
near perfect.

Now we’re tearing hands from holds,
forgetting— for failure
being burdensome.

Elbows freeze and knuckles ache
when two strangers who saw
everything too well, only glance.

Guilt no longer fits this.
Rather, simple sadness for stretching to
perfection and slipping.
Quiet loss.

If doors were still cracked and words left
said, angels would shout
there is still so much beauty to grip. 
And I’d say— first, dig deep
in mirrors and see for yourself,
yourself: Boundless worth.