You have known the taste of salt water,
and the smell of southern pine-tree forests,
and the cracks in a hundred sidewalks.
You have loved the gas pedal,
miles of train tracks, sailboats,
and the wings of planes crisscrossing
In all of these places that you have traversed,
you thought you could find a home in not having one;
You asked me to come with you once, with letters
and postcards full of promises, and I once
wrote you a map on the back of a napkin
with a leaking ball point pen a waiter
left behind on the table.
I told you to follow the faded ribbons
of cerulean and crimson, you may
have chased the sun across the sky
a countless amount of times,
but I know you’re not ready to admit
you’ll never catch it.
So all I ask as I scribble the last few lines
of this poem is that when you take off again,
don’t forget to write when you think you’ve found
the place where the sun sets fire to the horizon.