dear oliver,
the tea swirled
down as if it was
a broken stairway,
just dangling by
the ceiling of the
house.
“he would always
use the same excuse,”
she chuckled. a thin
silvery strand of
hair glowed in her
bun of hair.
i could always leave.
i don’t need you one
bit. but you, oh
you, you need me
more than anything.
“he was right,” she
made a louder chuckle.
“he was absolutely
right. i needed him.
i needed to punch
the living crap out
of him.”
i clinked the glass
with hers, a smile
tickling her lips.
“mom has a good
arm,” oliver wheezed
as he walked down
the wobbly stairs.
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...
