I always knew
you would leave.

The Atlantic
called you
ever since you
captured her
with the photography
of your mind
and placed her
colors to canvas.

I had you first,
and selfishly want
to tether you near.

I want every painting
to be a sunrise we watch
over the Sandias.
I want every merging river
to be you and me.
I want to wrap myself in
this home we created.

But there are
oceans in your eyes,
and when you look at me
waves crash my reflection.

What can the desert
offer a boy
with a mind for the tides
and hands like yours,
always drawing themselves?

It is just a matter of time
before she calls you east,
and I am left
to the west.