Perfect

I’m pretty sure I’m a perfectionist.
But I’ve selected this
because I know a label’s blessed to miss.
You see,
perfect’s far from an impressive wish.
Much more a blister
bent on dismissing missed calls
and ripped shawls.
Crystal clear as the water
with which comes withdrawals.
I’m some muddy mother fucker
made of prepped paste and pitfalls.
Preyed upon only by my prick
and my brick walls.
What a sorry schtick on which to stick balls.
So,
though I’m blessed to nest
in this mess of mine.
The stress depressed her
in less precious times.
I invested in the kind of worry
that sets sail for storms,
and spurs to hurry.
While charting stars through eyes too blurry.
Some sorry siren stirred me.
And now,
from a sea and a half away.
A spark,
or letter sent to heal the heart.
Only makes obvious
what oceans we’ve grown apart.