[See it Through] a poem

Giving up on love is volunteering
to die a slow death
everything in me
wants all that is you
leaning against this cold world,
I’ve grown numb to the bone
& as your warm press
becomes an earnest compress,
the cold is fading,
nothing holds together the fractures
& shatters;
I admit,
I’ve come apart
& have become a mess,
needing swept up



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]