He is

The sort of man who really means it when he closes his eyes.

Smiles three different ways and walks all waltzing suggestion.

Gives pause. Like this moment: holds his breath before he puts his hands upon the table. Always to say, this is a reckoning.

Knows your next glance before you do.

He’s longing. An empty parenthetical. The heron’s wings just above the water. A few drops of rain.

The equilibrium of air muscling its way to be close to him. Condensation a ruse. I want buckets of ruse. And he's yours now.