Salt Line

Lana’s guitar strums cradle me softly to sleep,

like they did in the summer of 2012,

when I first believed in love stories we whispered in the dark.

You on the West Coast — Eugene, under soft Oregon skies.

Me, beneath the humming streets of New York,

two hearts stretched across time zones,

woven together by hope, by youth, by something unnamed.

I used to picture us:

standing on windswept beaches,

my hand gripping my sunhat as the wind tried to pull me from you,

into the cold blue of the ocean —

but I always imagined you’d hold me steady.

I promised I’d visit your hometown one day —

even now, older, part of me still believes.

Our little story never really faded,

just settled like dust on old vinyl.

But here I am, whispering my goodbyes

as the sun fades toward noon,

and Lana strums Brooklyn Baby for me one last time.

Da da da da da — yeah yeah yeah —

her chords hum what words can’t.

I know you loved me.

I did too.

I wished it could’ve been forever,

not just a moment caught between coasts.

But I loved you,

even as your secret.

Goodbye, amor.