It’s all too much, but not enough; Ry, I'm

over here crying for unlimited 

wishes, the spilt days of open-ended  

influence, when a rotten dad was mine, 

not me, and that same dad not elderly.

I miss it all so bad, the could-be friends,   

all those good times I never had; homesick

for your old haunts, I've relapsed, squandering

promise every weekend. Where’ve you been?

I could've used your help as my half life 

elapsed. Friends till the end, I thought, but wounds 

deepened in excavating undissolved

stitches ask, finally, Ry, friends till the 

end of what? I'm over here wondering.