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He was perfect.

He was tall and dark and had an essence of mystery about him. He was kind and open and honest. He had a little curve to his right upper lip that pulled up when he smiled. He knew how to look at me and really see me. He made me feel beautiful and smart. He was adventurous. He could talk with me for hours and then stop when it was important to. He eyes were sympathetic. He had a great laugh. He was honest and raw and powerful with a pen.

He was perfect except when he was not.

Except when he waffled between women who loved him. Except when he broke promises. Except when he loved me and then didn’t. Except when he was reckless with people’s hearts. Except when he was toxic for me and then came back to apologize. Except when the apology made everything worse because it just made me love him more.

Except when he made me realize that no one is perfect. Not ever.

He wasn’t even perfect for me. He might be for someone else. But even that is not any kind of perfection. That’s the thing about it. Perfection is a mirage you think you see in the desert. Fleeting and unreachable. For a moment though, you think it is in your sight. Until the picture wavers and flutters against it’s real backdrop.

He was perfect in my mind, for a moment. And now I know he is not. And the act of knowing, the process of realizing, cost me.