It's hard.

It's hard.

You want it so badly. 

A constant ache.

So you go. 

Out to the bar. 

No joy there, only forced hilarity fueled by chemicals.

Online. 

It's all the rage. 

Some truth. 

Some lies. 

A strong undercurrent of desperation.

It's hard.

They have warts. 

Ailments. 

Hope, dreams, desire.
We take tests and surveys and are collated. 

We are paired.

Off to Starbucks. 

It's only a cup of coffee. 

But in reality an inspection. 

Rife with suspicion.

It's hard.

With her, it was youth. 

Fumbling with words.

Fumbling with feelings. 

Fumbling in the dark.

There was beauty. 

Joy. 

Real actual, human hilarity.

There were years. 

Never seeing. 

Youth to maturity to age

It's hard.

Now those warts. 

Ailments. 

Broken hope, dreams, desire.

They stand out so boldly. 

Like grey edging out the black. 

Dark spots against the pale.

I never saw her warts. 

Ailments. 

Hope, dreams, desire. 

All real. 

Vibrant.

It's hard.

She's gone. 

Now there's no time.

Can't grow into someone. 

Can't gain the blindness.

That thing makes it work. 

It's missing, not there. 

There's no time.

It's hard.
Too hard.

(c) 2017 John P. White