dear oliver,
“hi,” you scratched
the back of your neck
awkwardly.
“hello.”
“i’m sorry,” you began,
“i was -” the bell rang
and i slung my backpack
onto my shoulder, the
strap sliding over my
jacket.
“gotta go. sorry.”
the funny thing is that
you looked sad. why
in the world are you sad?
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...
