everything has flaws and cracks and mistakes. nothing is perfect. a mattress stripped of its sheets, bodies stripped of their clothes. then the flaws seem to slip away down the crevace between the bed and the wall, and the imperfections of everything seem to bleed into the dyes of the blankets in a ball at the foot of the bed. everything is okay. everything is right. heavy breathing muffled into collarbones. gritty fingernails dig into ribcages and spines. everything is incredibly close and raw and messy and it feels good even though it is not perfect. nothing is. things can come close though. things with you seem that way.