This virtual reality 

is getting out of hand.

We stare into our screens

and sink beneath 

the waves of existence;

through the chaos 

and the wonder, 

we listen as our hearts 

beat against the current. 

We dread the night, 

the night dreads us,

and the days get longer 

to spite us both:

the spoils of a battle 

neither of us expected.

We drown our sorrows 

in cups of coffee 

and sunset strolls, 

gasping for air and praying 

for an inch of mercy.

Our batteries full, 

our hearts empty. 

Between the “How are you?” 

and “I’m good!”

there lies an endless landscape, 

scattered with broken dreams

and strewn with empty promises.

Hours bleeding together,

staining the hands of time 

and clouding the gratitude

we once held within grasp.

Intimacy behind glass,

bruised beyond recognition—

a relic of the past, 

haunting the back alleys 

of our tortured youth.

Shaking hands with shattered hope, 

we tumble into an obsidian oblivion, 

desperate for a collision of color.

Will we, or won’t we?

Won’t we, or will we? 

This virtual reality

is getting out of hand.