With each and every minute I am with you
I can feel perfect leaching from my fingers
And I can’t tell you what a relief it is
to lose the golden ichor that bound me
to my father whom I regarded as a god.
Even now a slender thread of gold remains
wrapped around the fragile pinky finger,
but it does not try to choke me anymore
with nervous anxiety and the rasp of asthma.
There is no better thing to have happened to me
than to have dubiously fallen into your debt
and detached the cord that hung me from the sky,
the lifeline that enforced my independence.
Thanks to you, I smell of fish and cod oil
and the rushing river below and not
silk, paper, ink, and musty aging plastic
or that sour red vinegar slash mark, 100%.
I’m sorry my apology fell a little flat.
I am still getting used to the odd idea
that other people don’t think perfection
is the curse of strict adherence to destiny,
a set of rules, lines and demarcations
that left my personality flailing in vacuum
unable to explore the possibilities
that always included what would be wrong.
I am learning to be human again, to mistake
on purpose or by accident and forget
to watch my every step. I will not be nothing,
though you will think my dire earnestness
to reconstruct my self is misdirected folly.
To you, my self will have been there all along.
Even I can see the paradox, the contradiction,
in wishing to be worthy of a woman from Venus
by discarding all my trappings of immortality—
if that is the very flaw in my character, so be it.