I never thought you were beautiful,
Never mistook the holes in your stories,
the lilt in your voice,
the misplaced arrogance of your uncomfortable stride,
for poise.

That the wounds of blackened little boys mascara
Seeping into the divots
Of growing boy becoming man
Were attractive.

That your need to touch me
wherever I would let you in the dark,
was love
or even lust.

But I thought that you were ugly enough
that I could spin a tower of skin deep side long glances
strong enough to make you as pretty as I would ever need you to be.

And sometimes,
if I am honest,
the flutter of your broken butterfly was
enticing.

The wreck of your cracked wings
trying so hard to fly,
lent me validity.

But in the end,
the folds of your face,
so long wanted and never attained,
may have held so much more
then I will ever know.