Ugly.

I love you most when you’re ugly.

Your face twisted and melting.

Dripping with something like lust,

but eyes lost under their glaze,

tired and hungry.

Your mouth hangs open as if to speak,

but remains silent in a tortured

pain.

Or pleasure.

Or, again, hunger.

This face, in its tangled mess,

is what I love most.

For it is one meant only for me.

A face which other eyes have not seen

and which I gaze upon now

in a shared ugliness.