It's never quite real isn't it? No matter how warm you are against my fingertips, how raw you are against my touch, I've never really grown accustomed to the concept of you. You're surreal and solid at the same time, a dream I wrap myself around during these sharp winter nights. My love has blurred your existence in my mind; muddled it with delusions of perfection and eternity. Realism crumbles at your feet, but no sooner than I do. Your breath, your movements and your gaze are all weaved out of wishes I murmured to myself as a little girl. Suspended in this sub-reality, I'm held together by your love and nothing else, up until the moment that existence is returned to me by the dream that is your kiss.