I always knew
you would be leaving.
The Atlantic has called you
ever since she first saw your hands,
ever since she first
watched you take a picture of her
with the photography of your mind
and place her colors to canvas.
She adores you
and she is calling.
I am no match to her pull.
She is not alone.
Your mailbox overflows
with eager offers.
Everyone wants a piece of your madness.
Yet, I had you first,
and selfishly want to tether you near.
I want every painting to be a sunrise we watched.
I want every part to be you and me.
I want to wrap myself in
this home we have created.
But there are oceans in your eyes,
and when you look at me
I see crashing waves and city streets.
What can the desert offer such a boy
with a mind for the minute
and hands like yours
always drawing themselves.
I knew it was just a matter of time
before you work your way east,
leave me to the west.
Saturday's Sirens 