by Gabriel Langston

‏‏‎ ‎

‏‏‎‎It’s quiet as the sun rises
the morning after.
I’m sitting by the shore,
waiting, holding my breath
and an old branch.
The bark turns to dust in my hands.

I blow it out onto the water.
Little ripples
tear across the face of the lake
before going still.

You’re long gone, shoes covered
in miles of mud.
There’s nothing left but I don’t move.
I watch the lake go white, and I hold on.

 

© Gabriel Langston

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Gabriel Langston (they/them) is a writer from south Georgia.

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