None of That

He may name the constellations,
but none of that matters.

He may tell stories,
be the brighter part of a crowd,
cut his own hair;
but none of that matters.

He might dance like he doesn't care,
smoke cigars,
mispronounce things,
and get carried away;
but none of that matters if he can't give you love.

He could like his greens,
have a peculiar face, but beautiful eyes,
cry milk as a party trick,
sleep in his clothes;
but none of that matters.

And you can look for signs
like a satellite echo from Alpha-Centauri,
spin words from any angle you like,
just in case of cracks.

But none of that matters if he can't give you love.