it’s easy for him to say ‘it isn’t vanity’ 

when he knows someone out there

is getting paid.

and maybe if he angles it just right,

adjust the brightness of the backdrop

just so, 

moves his elbow out so the camera catches

a golden sunrise of daffodils

their adoring faces stretching to the horizon;

maybe someone else will fall in love as he has,

as quick and deep as drowning.

he tucks a flower behind his ear.

his therapist says it’s a

‘cluster b personality disorder,’ 

whatever that means,

but he knows he’s too pretty

to return to therapy:

the proof is in the tilt of his hand

and the hundredth snap of the shutter.