perfect connection

Who has the right to expect perfection of another? Who has a right to want completeness? To set up this stage littered with trap doors, to underestimate the rise of disappointment, its inevitable swell, and not only to believe, but to expect, to invest emotion in its unsustainable reality?

And then to explain that love was lost in that moment, when the well-oiled points of total connection slipped by one another and fell awkwardly to the floor, and lay impotent and thrashing in prosaic confusion. Their fall from grace, from the exaltation of sky and endlessness, of blue depth and the illusion that frosty clouds are warm cotton clusters; that they are cushion castles and do not house tomorrow’s storms and sudden, random electrical shocks.