to be famous
for our looks,
but the fact is
a beautiful face
is half-distinctive,
half-ambiguous.
Not incisive;
not disgusting—
like a sudden
vague pang
of recognition
through the rain.
What we want
more than fortune
and way more
than fame
is the subtle power
to trigger nostalgia;
to make another
tingle with suspicion
and that lust
for just in case;
not to be seen,
but to have been
seen somewhere before;
not to be named,
but at last
to be placed.
