dear oliver,
rose has a vintage house. there are
tea cups hanging from the kitchen’s
cabinets. she has a small stove
with engraved initials. i think it was
her grandmother’s.
the paint was weathered and peeling off
in spots, and the slats in the shutters on the
upstairs windows were mostly broken out.
a slight breeze made the shutters tap against
the hose and the hinges squeaked.
the sun low in the sky, illuminated the upstairs
rooms making the two windows facing me
look like dime red eyes, and the door below
a gaping maw. i could see inside the front door
into the house which was littered with debris.
yet with its flaws, it felt like home.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
zero
PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
