imperfection

it tastes like a nepalese snow smells like indian curry
it hits every brain oh so hard and is known by so little
in every notorious rush, in the fire and hurry
in every responsible human that's so noncommittal

it always has started with love, what a wonderful feeling
until it has slapped you and left you with nothing to wait for
from "give me your left cheek" and self-irreplaceable kneeling
to going through ultimate challenge of "i'll call you later"

it hurts like a knife in your stomach it tears you to pieces
it drives you to endless divisors of self intersection
it never shows up in the mirrors and always increases
and never dissolves cause the name of it is imperfection