He: potential beams

He casts a child's smile, a face that's pale but sunny. When he enters the dark café he will be everywhere. In each corner of the sofa there is a molecule of his, his smiling eyes projected on the shiny spoons. He talks, he gestures generously. His bearing is calm and gentle, his features pose an invitation. He is flirting, I reckon, he is flirting with the world and he doesn't even know it. With the girls and with the boys, with the coffee he is making, with the cigarette he's rolling, with his hat and with his jacket. It's a pleasure to behold him. I used to do it from a distance, now I just approach, make a joke and watch him laugh. Strangely, he – a figure popular, involved, attractive – appears delicate and sensitive, almost fragile and romantic. Is he though? Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps the beasts in us are cunning, win us with a posture, then attack and steal our minds. Perhaps there's just a thin permeable membrane between a hearth enlarged and hearth rejected. And yet how to stop this urgent pull, I know he knows, I know I'll have to let it be.