A Circus of Salvations

He was an ugly fuck. He wasn't ugly. The intercourse was. Oysters choking on their own pearls. Leaky buckets spilling drops of our clothes as we walked toward the bed. There's no staying covered in those situations. Those perfect epiphanies where the threat of orgasm makes us small enough. To fit inside each other.

Kisses milling about like ants on a dead cricket. Happiness a stopwatch. Counting off the seconds we have left. To break the promise. To go back to the lives we had. Find our way back inside those giant pants and pretend the zipper isn't as sharp as it was when it spit us out.

The dust on his shoulders. Little sculptures of apathy. Grey clowns in used makeup. In wardrobes of scars. And scabby shoes. Grey clowns with grey noses taking off their over sized shoes.

He wasn't ugly. His words were though. Sharp hooks through tender lips. Fishing. Always fishing. Catching and throwing back. He wasn't ugly, but his methods were. The criminal. The victim. The clown without his makeup. Trying to purchase a smile.