Missed Calls

Somewhere in Las Vegas, a latex-gloved hand is holding a phone right now. It lights up, ringing. The front might say “Richard”, or “Kitten”, or “Mom”. They put it in an evidence baggie, still ringing, knowing the heartbreak waiting on the other end of that line.

It’s a field of 58 bodies. 
It’s a sea of 5800 loved ones reaching out.
It’s an ocean of 58,000,000 hearts breaking, one call, one text, one message at a time.
And they keep desperately ringing.