dear oliver,
they won’t let
me see you. but
i have something
to tell you. i’m
sorry. i’m sorry
but she’s not here
for you. she’s
not holding your
hand nor crying,
instead she’s
letting her tongue
dance with the
guy who patted
your back and
said, “you’re
my best friend.”
no, he doesn’t
know anything
about you.
i do, oliver, i know
every single thing.
but i guess i didn’t
know enough. i guess
i couldn’t try to save you.
i guess i was too late.
there is still hope, right?
doctors say you have
more than half of a chance
of waking up.
{what about surviving, doc?
will he survive?}
your life is half full
or just half empty?
a question you’ll
only know the answer
to.
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...
