the emptiness of perfection

When I encountered him, the physical being I have come to know as perfection, I was busy, busy being happy, busy not caring about anything; I walked in and owned the place, arms flung out in greeting, joy and liveliness bursting from me. I was a flower, he was drawn to me, he searched me with his eyes and words before he approached me, and I tolerated him the way a flower would allow a bee to explore its parts, I didn't resist or put up a fight, which had little to do with his perfection, or our interaction, it just felt right. When his eyes stared into mine, I felt no spirit, no connection, nothing, just emptiness, just the clang of two beings doing what nature had decreed.

And there is him, the intellectual being I have come to know as perfection, and in his exploratory and drowsy circles above me, I felt the flutter of his wings, I feel the way he bends the air with his existence, he makes me as alert as the sun, I flush into crispness. I have nothing much to give but he takes it all. I had previously been floundering in a lazy gauzy fallow time, feeling content, even happy with all around me, a lovely complacency. And somehow, in his insistence that I was important to him, I felt nothing, not a glimmer of hope or joy, but a confusion that I cannot shake.

In their perfection, they lack the necessary humbleness I look for in any and every person, the moments when the mask falls and the truth tumbles from their lips; they should hurt and have humanness spewing from them, instead it only glints across their solid form.

The one least likely [the antidote/my centaur] somehow manages for fleeting moments to impact me (physically, intellectually, emotionally). I wonder sometimes how he seems to fumble so mightily, but so often get it right when so many others have failed at me. He may be a new bee, but he keeps trying and when I look into his eyes, I see pain, sadness, vulnerability and happiness. Even when we are off and out of it, he is still pleased at the chance to explore me.

A year ago, celibacy loomed in my life not like a punishment, but as a relief, a sturdy place to rest from the exertions that had been my relationships. I touched my toe to its surface the way one tests water, and I took slow gulps of it, feeling it out, considering how much of it to impose on myself. It happened that my declaration didn't hold up against many different circumstances (the centaur, for one, has turned touch into an art form; and some I will never see again), but in the end, it has helped me further define just what it is I need and want. In finding pleasure in [my centaur] his arms (strong branches, he has), feeling the hot tickle of joy from his knowing and wanting me and our idle talking on the phone for hours, I found my law of threes.

I want to be with someone that has a complete mastery of the law of threes. Until then, I will tolerate them, parceling myself out, always wondering.