She exists.

She is not a figment of my imagination, nor the subject of a dream. She’s not the fantasy of others, she’s exactly as she seems. She is not a ghost, or a spirit, though her spirit may run deep. She exists. She exists. She exists.

She is not a fictional character in a book I never penned; a wispy European damsel in distress I rush to save. She is not the protagonist of some epic poem I read. She exists. She exists. She exists.

She is not a passing fancy, or a trendy flashing pan. She is not a distant model gracing the cover of a magazine. She’s not moving in slow motion across a celluloid screen with a soundtrack scored below her, like a Norwegian gritty gem, or a modern rendition of a cinematic stream. She exists. She exists. She exists.

She’s so real — when I awake, she’s watching me. When I turn to ask a question, she’s right there to answer me. When we’re walking towards the sunset, my fingers feel a squeeze. She exists. She exists. She exists.

-j.2u

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