dear oliver,
the tea swirled
down as if it was
a broken stairway,
just dangling by
the ceiling of the
house.

“he would always
use the same excuse,”
she chuckled. a thin
silvery strand of
hair glowed in her
bun of hair.

i could always leave.
i don’t need you one
bit. but you, oh
you, you need me
more than anything.

“he was right,” she
made a louder chuckle.
“he was absolutely
right. i needed him.
i needed to punch
the living crap out
of him.”

i clinked the glass
with hers, a smile
tickling her lips.

“mom has a good
arm,” oliver wheezed
as he walked down
the wobbly stairs.

quinn