Blind

The world around me is a fuzzy blur
A mockery of what it ought to be;
I can imagine what I think I see,
But even then I never can be sure.
I know, of course, quite well what I'd prefer
To look up and notice surrounding me:
That would be you. But practicality
Tells me you aren't; I'd wonder if you were.
Yet when I fill the blanks of my desire
I cannot help but conjure up your face
And pragmatism cannot quite erase
That hope. I know that hope can be a liar,
And yet it comforts me in blindness to
Imagine somewhere out there is a you.