Flaw Salad

We must not touch our idols; the gilt comes off in our hands.

– Gustave Flaubert

You finally let me close, and I wish you hadn’t. Or I’m glad you did.

My hands are covered in your spell, your magic, your charm. I see the residue of dignity and power. A glint of depth and beauty-seeking catches my eye as I ball my fists and turn away.

I can’t stand to look at you there, your ordinariness bared. You really are what you said you were, aren’t you? An earner. A shark. You’re just a man seeking money and creature comforts, and I see it as your shine falls away.

I didn’t listen. I scratched and clawed my way close. I had to touch you, to feel you, to take you in. I came up to you, to squeeze and love you, and I was shocked at how easily you broke.

So I walk away, dejected.

As I catch my final glimpse, I see your repairs have already begun. Re-shine. Re-glitter. Re-gleam for the next one.

Somewhere out of sight, I’ll quietly kneel and wash your magic away.