It’s all in my head
And yours;
Shared memories
In private boxes of words
And bubbles of thoughts.
It’s only you who can disprove me
And in doing so
You’d call yourself a liar
And a traitor
But you wouldn’t.
I hope.
It hurts
When you say
You hope it’s real–
What do you mean?
That is isn’t?
That it wasn’t?
This is our secret place
Intangible
Corruptible
Vulnerable and fragile
But it isn’t–
I believe so,
If we believe so.
This is our secret place.
Where everything
IS real.
The plane where
We touch the deepest parts of our own
With hidden faces,
And hearts exposed.
This is our secret place.
Life Written in Poetry 
It’s all real of course – every speck, even wispy drifts of dream states. The thing is whether another can share the reality as we experience it, and that is often only to a certain degree. Keep writing.
That means a lot. Thank you 🙂