I wonder sometimes if
you are real
or have I
written you
into being.

Did I create you out of
a need for someone
to love ...
out of leftover nouns and adjectives
from a poem I wrote
about the magical
angels in my garden?
Did your feelings
for me
flow from my pen
like blood from a deep cut
pulsating from my own heart?
Did your beauty
spring from a sonnet
I tried to write
but abandoned because
I couldn't capture you in iambic pentameter?
Are you the product of
feverish ramblings
penned in the mystic light
of the waning full moon?

I think you must be real;
for if not,
why do I cry
when I ponder that you are an illusion.

dennis