A/N Again, this was posted on my Facebook, so no italicized Author's Note will lay below this. Anyways, I wrote this as a kind of joke, meaning that the perfect guy would be Misha Collins, but edited that part out of the story, lest I look creepy or something alike that. Not to mention, almost no one on my friends list knows who Misha is, so. Yeah.
A/N So yeah. I'm just gonna write poems now.
She tries to run to him,
But she can't;
Her knees are locked in place
And something just went through him,
Like an apparition, a ghost.
She knows he's not real,
Just a figure made out of her imagination -
The perfect man
Who's never real.
He can't be real, she tells herself.
If he were,
The world wouldn't seem all that scary
And all that bad.
This man is amazing,
Fascinating, cultured, selfless,
Hilarious, and incredibly literate.
He's handsome,
That, too,
And he's someone that you just can't help noticing,
Even in your mind.
In the dead of night,
He'd come to her,
Singing softly, playing with her hair,
Ensuring that she had a good night's sleep.
When she wakes up,
He's gone downstairs,
And breakfast is ready,
Complete with bacon and all.
She tries to name him,
Subconsciously, she does,
But forces her mind out of that dangerous zone,
For, one day, he'll have gone.
But he doesn't cease to exist,
Even when she's thirty,
At home with her two children,
Her husband at work.
Her little Maison and little West,
(Both named by him)
Dance around and play,
Enjoying their young lives,
Every single day.
And, at last, by the time she's thirty-nine,
She thinks of the perfect name -
An odd name, sure,
But a name all the same.
She keeps it to herself for years,
Never telling,
Never giving it away,
And just cherishes the gift her mind
Has given her.
When she's seventy-three,
At her husbands funeral
(It was an accident, they said)
She tells him,
Tears staining her cheeks,
Running down her face.
He replies with a soft smile,
Blue eyes twinkling even after all these years,
And says,
"I love it."
But he's never real.
