What I Meant by Maine

I think about Maine,

and all my memories there;

all the times we visited the lighthouse,

its red light hypnotizing my young eyes.

Those cold winters—bone-chilling.

You would read to me,

cuddled beside a space heater;

it dried out our eyes, but we didn’t mind.

Then as I got older,

those long summer nights—

I can still taste the cigarettes and alcohol,

still hear our laughter in the air.

It was where I always said

I wanted to live, but I never did.

I came close once or twice,

but life always has a way of changing plans.

You think things might go a certain way,

but then they don’t.

You think you’ll move to Maine, listening

to the foghorns until you grow old.

But you end up in Seattle,

on the opposite coast.

I still see glimpses of Maine

in the rocky shoreline here,

in the cobalt blue waters of the Salish Sea;

some days, it even tricks me

into believing I made it.

Oh, and if you’re wondering,

I still look for you.

And I wonder if you ever

look for me, too.