I fancy...

John Krasinski's nose,
that one worker from Urban Outfitters that shyly told me "hi" before I left the store last Saturday,
I fancy---
Thom Yorke's genius,
Michael Cera's odd charm,
Joseph Gordon Levitt's crooked smile,
that one internal story teller from high school,
that charming poet from Chicago,

the friendly charisma of the worker that took my "Venti Caramel Machiattio--oh, and can I have it upside down with extra caramel, please?" order at Starbucks last night--
and the fair-skinned man that worshiped God with trembling hands last Sunday evening,
and--
Alex Ebert's genuine passion for music,
Jack Johnson's lyrical talent,
Julian Casablanca's rebelness,
Federico Garcia Lorca's introspective conflict with love,

that one blogging stud/cartoonist from New York City--
that one guy that was wearing a black and white stripped beanie at Warped Tour of last year--
and the nerdy worker from the thrift store I went to a few weeks ago that sincerely tried making eye contact with me,

and that one timid dude that sat next to me at the computer section of the library at school a few months ago,
I also fancy--
the journalist that wrote an article about Venice, Italy in the Travel section of the Los Angeles Times for the November 2010 issue,

and--

Michael Angelekos curly hair,
Woody Allen's sarcastic humor,
Robert Pattinson's British accent,
Matthew Gray Gubler's eccentric art.

I fancy more than I should, now that I think of it.
Not only that-- but I fancy the impossible.
the unreachable,
the may-never-ever-get-to-meet,
may-never-ever-get-to-see-again.
Why do I fancy such men? Such things?
Why do I want what I can't have?
and reject that which is disposed to me?
Why am I so complicated in such simplistic manners?
I really don't know, I really may never know.