dear oliver,
ring. ring. phone call.
it’s two am. and i still
didn’t come to see you.
ring. ring. voicemail it
goes. ring. ring. i miss
you still.
the phone goes ring to
ring out the blurring
lines of heart monitors
that show the meaning
to life. only a mere life
judged by the beating
of blood and oxygen.
i’m a waste of an empty
ocean. and you’re the
land who drifted away.
yet a ten year old you
told me that the ocean
wasn’t pretty. and you
were right.
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...
