There is no such thing as perfect
only the quiet agreement
between what breaks us
and what refuses to stay broken.
Still—listen:
the wind learns its shape from open fields,
light rehearses itself each morning
on the edge of every roof and leaf,
as if the world forgives itself
by becoming new again.
You are not a finished thing.
You are a river remembering it is water,
a name still warm from being spoken,
a fault-line holding the sky together
without ever asking to be whole.