She slips into the cracks,
So often I feel,
I no longer know,
If whom I'm talking to is real.

Her fictitious home,
***** her in,
Her books add floors,
Cemented by dreams.

She stares at ceilings,
And sees worlds breath,
The quite in her room,
Makes death question his being.

She looks at me,
As she sips her coffee,
She's never seen me,
In the mist of that coffee.

I try to see the world,
Through her eyes,
God would be jealous,
Of the universe that lies.

Her dreams tangible,
The world where she lives,
She's made me real,
Or made my reality slip.