London Johns (16)
Two Years After
My grief is one flat stone caught in the tide
pushed in and out but always brought back home
by ocean waves and time.
Pulled back each day to these familiar hills
and back each night to where I’m told you lie,
much closer than you lived.
Pick me up, my weariness and missing you,
the texts I haven’t sent.
Smoother than two years lost, forgotten
in my forgotten loss–
cold and damp against rough writer-skin,
between worn fingertips.
Throw me deep into the sea again
and watch me walk on water watch me fly
on memories of you, on golden gleaming days–
Until I sink–
Then you can blink, mother.
Then you can fade away.
London Johns is a 16-year-old student. When they are not writing, they spend their time reading about moral philosophy, doodling, and drinking tea. One day, they hope to finally finish their first novel, which is about pigeons, public transportation, time travel, and the many joys of living near a library.
Two Years After
My grief is one flat stone caught in the tide
pushed in and out but always brought back home
by ocean waves and time.
Pulled back each day to these familiar hills
and back each night to where I’m told you lie,
much closer than you lived.
Pick me up, my weariness and missing you,
the texts I haven’t sent.
Smoother than two years lost, forgotten
in my forgotten loss–
cold and damp against rough writer-skin,
between worn fingertips.
Throw me deep into the sea again
and watch me walk on water watch me fly
on memories of you, on golden gleaming days–
Until I sink–
Then you can blink, mother.
Then you can fade away.
London Johns is a 16-year-old student. When they are not writing, they spend their time reading about moral philosophy, doodling, and drinking tea. One day, they hope to finally finish their first novel, which is about pigeons, public transportation, time travel, and the many joys of living near a library.