Unknown, someone else will hold you in his arms.

Someone else will also giggle when you make most puns. Someone else will brush the fringe off of your eyebrows, thinking how plain and how plainly serene you are. Someone else will find your back, where it becomes your legs, not sexy but appealling, justly-shaped, your shoulders uncrushable but begging for a crush.

Some other man will adore, as well, the intrepid way you start on journeys, the happy way you slip paddles into a river and jump onto a trail. Someone else will know your easy play with language, your alchemy of British toffee into street slang, and the way you turn his slips into cartoony slogans; your demotic urge and literate poise. And your perfectly unique sprouts of pronunciation, which confound me, like—an airplane-shaped mushroom on the forest floor: you know, anyone would laugh and wonder at you, at that, your secret garden of parallel becoming.

When you discover something, say a mass migration of miniature frogs—you can share this with anyone, of course, anyone will adore your ready, open mind and the way it plucks out tiny marvels. Someone else will hover smiling through your phobias, thinking only of the heart of yours which stands to break in facing those spiders and those sheer drops.

Another man, Unknown, will drift drowsy in the night with you, muttering perhaps, feeling strangely, wholly private and still un-alone. Some other man, for sure, will find it easy waking up with you, cooking eggs, taking tea at a rubbish pub, hiking under rain, ignoring you, finding you, blinking at you—would be cheered by your easy, hardy, pastel, melancholy spirit. It would be simple.

These things are commonplace.