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Good Enough

We are
our missing pieces,
The missing peace that eats us,
That chips away at the stone
until we alone are rebirthed
as earthen vessels of
imperfectly perfect worth,
Filled with errs,
And blurs of unsures,
And swirls of cause
and effect,
Centiletres of regret.

We are an amalgation
of tears and blood and sweat,
Of all the yesses that were nos,
And of the times we second guessed and froze,
A web of what ifs and not yets,
Of bated breaths,
Of one-bar rests,
Of waiting for the right time,
Of praying for some more time,

Of grieving for our lost time.

We are everyone we have ever met,
And yet
we can never be free,
Because we still see each other
An endless spool of not like mes,
Of better than shes,
Of wish I were hes,
When in reality
We are me
and she
and he,
We are perfectly
and beautifully
and unequivocally…

We all bleed.

Our hearts all drum.

We are all the sum of the things
we have done and seen,
And of all that’s in between,

We are all the sum of the things
we think and feel and say,
We are meant to be this way;

and scarred,
and scuffed.

And that…

Well that is
good enough.