You're No Brad Pitt, Nor Leanardo De Caprio...
not that either have anything to do with each other
perhaps not even in real life, certainly not stature.
Like Pitt makes us think something sinister happens
under his fleur-de-lis when innocence portrays
itself clear as the bevel in antique glass of an etagere
or armoire, either nonetheless containing weight of
secrets, passion, history and what history is his, eh?
How a handsome man might certainly turn down some
offers of intimacy. How a Leonardo, for instance,
might follow on the street, for a block or so, and upon
arriving home Pitt would latch the door promptly, yet
retire hands restless, pawing at the beside table for
a joint, a cig, some Nyquil. How a Leonardo, for instance,
might go home to a more lonely apartment, leave
his door unlocked, perhaps ajar, and hope for any stranger
to venture in: the stumbling drunk frat neighbor dude,
the quiet one down the other hallway, that short-haired
flat-chested girl from across the vesitbule. Anyone who
might match the effect of the object of his stalk, the Pitt
whom he has need to feel, even within an inch not touching
skin's dampness and fine hairs shooting out to meet handy
through chilled air in any season. An unseasonable heat.