Of Sea Secrets, And Not Knowing.

"Ending of an era, and the turning of a page."-Tim McGraw, My Next Thirty Years.

You don't know me. You don't know how I look when I've just woken up, how I look when I throw a tantrum. You don't know how I have equal parts of OCD and slob in me. You don't know my shampoo or how I smell. You don't know my brand of cigarettes. You don't know the way I look when I light up, the slight frown when I take a drag. You don't know how I look when I eat, how I like my tea, how I thrive on orange juice.You don't know the way I sit, or how I look when I'm relaxed. You don't see me at my worst, or witness any of my blonde moments.

You don't know how I look when I sleep, or if I snore sometimes. You don't know that I sleep on my tummy, in a number four pose. You don't know that I get restless if I don't have an extra pillow to roll onto.You don't know my dreams. You don't know my ambitions. You don't know how I look when I write, or how it possesses me.

You don't how I look when I'm working or studying. You don't know where I want to be in 10 years and the things I want from life.

I could say we don't want the same things, but unfortunately I don't know anything about you either.

I could argue that we'd learn, but I know somewhere in my head that we can't. These things we don't know about each other after almost half a dozen years, is the cliched twist, in what could have been a perfect story.

It's not about the warm fuzzy feelings in my tummy. It's about these little things that we don't know. That we'll never know. The little things that count.

You'll always be exotic to me, not some silly White Knight, but an eccentric poet wandering the country. A slightly odd artist, who sketches odd things, and complains about bad light.

With messy, slightly long hair. And the smirk. And those unsettling, sees-too-much eyes.

But you'll remain an intense, perfect character in a story. One, that'll make me sigh and ask my best friend why they don't make men like that in the real world.

You'll stop being real, and I'll stop having a real yearning for you. You'll become normal, even mundane to me. You'll start balding, and grow a pot-belly. And wear uncle clothes. And have a normal, nice wife, with normal nice children.

And you'll become a regular man.

But you'll always remain a perfect character in my perfect story. In my very imperfect head.