perfect is dead

I never expected you to be perfect
or me either
because perfect is dead
so we must aspire asymptotically for perfect
approaching but never reaching;
the journey of our lives

I want to sit in those hard conversations
wading through the muck
trying to find the courage to stand and speak
without the crutch of my journal
with its scribbled notes.

I want to reach deep into my gut
and touch my heart, still beating as you hold it in your hand
dismembered yet still warm
what can we learn from reading the entrails?
What does my own gut, swirling mass of of primordial ooze,
that part of me that is a whole ecology of microbial not-me,
tell me that the revered mind cannot?