At what point is a real thing real?
When touched or seen,
or is it real when first perceived
within the mind's-eye playhouse?

Are giant whales
true solid beasts,
though I have never touched one?
Are your lips real,
though I have never kissed them?
Do you exist
when all that remains of you
within my walls
are memories
and wafting scents
of lavender and rose?

I see you clearly
here behind my eyes,
I hear your voice
within the boundless silence
of my mind
and feel your
insubstantial touch
caress a yearning soul.

You are real to me,
and knowing you exist
is all I need
and all that matters.