I have not held you, nor have touched your hand;

I have not seen you in the flesh of you,

Nor how you walk, not even how you stand.

I have not heard you speak, or even hum;

No hard and solid fact have I of you

To add to my imaginary sum.

I have your messages upon a screen,

A screen not even mine, of glassy sheen.

We see, react, are typing in between

High thoughts that fly unbodied through the air,

And yet, to say we’re spirits is not fair.

For you are very real and very rare.

I’ll have a poem, untyped, within my hand,

To give you when my plane comes in to land.