I miss you, Chesapeake.

And the way we used to speak

Side by side in salt crusted wicker rocking-chairs.

You were never one to talk too much or listen too little.

And you were always willing to just . . .  be.

I could cry in front of you, dear friend,

And not feel shamed by my bloodshot eyes.

Or I could sink to my knees in your confessional

And you would bury my secrets in the chamber of a nautilus.

I remember how I could throw out dreams in glass bottles

And trust you to return them full of potential.

I miss the way I could lick your air for a taste of momma’s kitchen

And open my eyes reinvigorated.

Chesapeake, I miss the way you used to let me dance on your toes,

With the wide open arms of your horizon encircling me.

Your white feet always showed me the way.

I no longer hear the songs you’d sing

And Appalachia never learned your lullabies.

I go to bed alone.

Every so often I swear I smell your perfume,

The kind you used to wear on crisp mornings

When we’d watch the sun rising over your shoulder,

And I find myself looking off towards where I last saw you.

I still treasure the sea shell you sent me in a love letter.

I wish, sweet lover that you could make the first move.

I wish that you could rise up to my door.

I wish that you could hear these whispers.

My love, I wish to sink beneath your brine.

And meet between the ironsides.

Chesapeake, I know that I am the one who left

But it feels as if you are lost.

Old friend, I’ll find my way to you once more.

I miss you, Chesapeake.

Let me come home.