You sent me a seashell
wrapped in bubbles
with a note saying
“When you miss me
hold it close
to play one of
the love notes
I wrote you
buried in white sand
where I sat each day
by the ocean
calling out your name”
I left the seashell
on my bookshelf
next to the books
you sent me
two summers ago
I am becoming
a hobby collector
who accumulates
broken promises
and empty dreams
I diligently dust
any remnant of hope
off the shelf
like a devoted nun
at her daily supplication
while your consistent contacts
constructed an abbey
holding my heart
in hostage