I love you tirelessly,
sort of,
because maybe you could sort of turn this
grey concrete to
red oak wood
that’s as welcoming as your arms.
Carve heat out of bricks,
to melt ice and warm bones
to carry the bag my body is in.

You sort of made the echoing halls
of this hopeless place a home,
sort of sent a cursive letter to me
I cannot sort neatly into a part of my brain,
sort of removed the numb,
making the pain vague.

Hopelessness is only a state
when I’m with you,

sort of.

© lilac_of_hope