You stand stiffly as a splinter
when you say goodbye to things.
I remember a photograph:
the one where your hair is wild
and your face is contorted, but you are smiling
as if the cameraman is daring you to be ugly
and you just fucked his wife
and used his polaroids to take a keepsake
of her body.
I used to wonder why you sent this one to women
when I’ve found your face on my closed eyes
as soft and as lovely as could be.
I understand now why you did,
now that we’ve left eachother,
now that I know how ugly you can be.