I don’t know if I’d really call it hope.
It’s a thought.
Growing
like a bacteria in a confined cupboard
no one opens, for fear
of asbestos poisoning.
The thought that I will one day talk to you again. 
 Maybe a long way from now.
But being able to see you,
and hold your hand,
and ask you things.
Perhaps even hear you say
that it’s okay.
And you understand, you know?
Maybe that is hope.
I don’t think it’s exactly wishful thinking,
because that’s something that’s done
if a realistic expectation had potential
to be met
but god
maybe you’re just a rotting body
shoved into the cavity of the Earth,
stowed away
out of sight
just like this one
maybe-hopeful-wishful-thinking-thought.