Perfection

He was sitting beside the window with the morning sun on his hair.
He looked intent browsing thru the book in his hand.
"How can you measure perfection?" I asked.
He glanced at my direction, lifted his left brow in silent inquiry.
"How...?" I asked, slightly frowning for I cannot seem to find the right words to say.
"How can you label one as perfect when nobody knows what perfection is?" I added.
He was silent for a moment.
"Perfection is a matter of conviction or belief," he said.
"It is subjective."
He closed the book and laid it silently on the table.
"It is not measured in terms of metrics, for like love, it is immeasurable," he continued.
"It is dependent on the profoundness of the encounter."
Cy03.19.06