He’s the one

 Oh sure,

he’s the one—

the one you dream of for hours,

for years,

for lifetimes.

Bad enough,

good enough. 

Sexy, kind.

Only yours. 

The fire in your veins,

the shadow in the doorway,

that just-out-of-reach smirk

Your private exotic ghost. 

You chase him through city streets,

find his echoes in passing faces,

swear you see him—

but he always slips away.

Oh sure,

he’s the one—

the one you dream of,

the one who lingers,

your private exotic ghost.

He walks through your thoughts,

golden, untouchable,

the fire in your breath,

the storm in your pulse.

You catch glimpses of him—

in strangers, in shadows,

he’s sitting next to you on the train,

he’s a co-worker, a neighbor,

a foreign politician,

a Hollywood actor,

the vocalist of your favorite band,

manly, feminist, impossible.

He is everywhere—

but just out of reach.

And then, one quiet night,

bathed in silver light,

you turn to the mirror,

and there he is—

Waiting.

Smiling.

He was always you.