This sonnet is written to a character I've been developing, who seems to be coming off the page in a slightly alarming way. I chose Shakespearean style, though it took four quatrains to make sense (does it?)... Yes I know I'm stepping outside 'the standard', but The Bard did too on occasion.



How to define that thing which we call ‘real’?

I see you now, my dear, here in my head.

I cannot reach my hand to yours, to feel,

But touch with mental fingertips instead.

I taste your lips, and smell your perfume too.

I hear you clearly, though you make no sound.

I see you, yet no camera captures you.

I feel your weight, yet scales do not respond.

No wall nor field can prison you within. 

No wavelength can define your passage through.

You have no vector, charge, nor mass, nor spin,

And CERN has never seen a quark like you.

So I’ll resort to Newton’s learned tome,

I’ll use his laws of motion to infer.

And by observing what’s already known,

I see by perturbation; you ARE here.

   In terms of your profound effect on me,

   You are as real, my love, as real can be.




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