dear oliver,
car door. keys.
street lights.
a chuckle pasts
my lips.
why are the stars
so pretty when
they are only made
out of gas?
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...
xcvi.
dear oliver,
car door. keys.
street lights.
a chuckle pasts
my lips.
why are the stars
so pretty when
they are only made
out of gas?
quinn
