The oceanís sweet mist rose in the
hot July air. That morning we woke
in New York City, where taxi cabs
were still honking through traffic.
The waves crashing against the rocks
provided a different silence. We sat
in beach chairs meant for hotel guests.
I breathed Maine air. Your air. We
were one more mile closer. But on that
beach in Maine, sitting in chairs not
meant for us, it already felt like home.