What if I told you that the only thing real
is the hymn sung by every millimetre of your sun-kissed skin?

What if I told you that the only thing real
is the hammering of your brave porcelain heart, scarcely contained within?

What if I told you that the only thing real
is the flake of clear white snow on your weary fingertips?

What if I told you that the only thing real
is the words that pour out of your soul but never your lips?

What if I told you that the only thing real
is the turn of the wind and the canopy of stars that you are beholden to?

What if I told you that the only thing real
is the universe inside you?

What if I told you that the first time I saw you, I ceased
to be real.

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