dear oliver,
ring. ring. phone call.
it’s two am. and i still
didn’t come to see you.

ring. ring. voicemail it
goes. ring. ring. i miss
you still.

the phone goes ring to
ring out the blurring
lines of heart monitors
that show the meaning
to life. only a mere life
judged by the beating
of blood and oxygen.

i’m a waste of an empty
ocean. and you’re the
land who drifted away.

yet a ten year old you
told me that the ocean
wasn’t pretty. and you
were right.

quinn