I was thinking about Olive once again
and how maybe if we both tried I could eventually meet her.
I'd like to think she'd have your laugh,
your smile,
I'd like to think she would have had all of the qualities I thought were best about you.
My imagine serves me as my only comfort:
A 200-mile distance and a haphazardly scrawled message on a gloomy March afternoon has jolted me into sense -
my depiction of my Olive is holistic,
never-ending
and ultimately parasitic.
YOU ARE READING
poems that are piss poor
Poetryupdated whenever i'm inspired enough to write no guarantee work is good tw: death, vivid discussions of poor mental health
