dear oliver,
“quinn, i want to see him.”
you said for the third time.
i sighed and pulled your face
to mine, “you really don’t.”
“quinn, you don’t know that.
you’re not me.”
“i know that if you saw him, you’d
regret it the second you place
your eyes upon him.”
“shut up, quinn.”
“oh.”
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...
