Perfect—an absurd word.

By definition: without flaw, without defect.
But tell me—
who decides what is flaw?
Who dares to declare a thing complete
in a world forever undone?

Perfect is illusion wrapped in grace,
a silk veil drawn over something still breathing.
It speaks of endings
in a life that has only ever known motion.
A silence interrupting a symphony
still reaching for its final note.

To call something perfect
is to deny it permission to change—
to praise it into stillness.
It is not reverence,
but a soft undoing:
the kind that freezes a moment
so it may never become more.

Perfection, in its most elegant deceit,
is not truth.
It is a mirror too smooth
for anything real to hold.