Not a perfect me,
never me,
me always in some sort of weaving,
who would know me,
I myself never knew me,
one day in a story,
a line turned in to me,
not really me, actually  not yet
perfect, but almost an inspiration.

The stories do turn,
wonderful at times, slow at other,
dead sometimes and fire in nights,
they have doors that never open and windows
that are huge to allow memories, yes of all sizes,
to enter.

What would I leave behind,
an imperfection,
may be, but it would be for you,
you would know how then to take it
to your definition of perfection,
I hope that for you too it remains
just a definition.

A construct reconstructed.