North by Northwestern

To the best of my ability
I can only remember
three girls I write about
in the second person.
I say “you” so you can never be too sure
which you I actually mean.
Which you a specific poem
or play
or novel
or rant
or hate mail
is truly about.
It keeps you guessing,
keeps you on your toes,
and reminds you that you’re
not the only person
who has gone through this before
with me.
You each have your own memories
and places I’ll never be able to visit again
without wanting to go home.
You can tell where I’ve been
by the earth on my shoes.
Rocks and dust mean the Lakefill,
and the campground by the river
you and I used to go to
when we were young.
Grass stains mean the field,
and the hill in your back yard
where I tripped
and rolled
and broke my wrist
in the middle
of your birthday party.
And sand means the beach,
and the observatory in the desert,
Tucson, Arizona,
on top of a mountain,
collecting images and measurements
of light from stars
and worlds
long dead.
More importantly, all of this earth means
that I am in Chicago,
without you.
I am at the Lakefill,
and you are 758 miles away.
I am at the field,
and you are 645 miles away.
I am at the beach,
and I have
absolutely no idea
where you are.
Let’s keep it that way.
The beach is eerily still tonight.
The lake is still frozen
even though it was sixty today.
Earth is slow to respond
to her own changes
A fault we share.
There is a simple reason I am anywhere from
645 to however-many miles
away from you.
I needed to move on
with my life.
And still,
on still nights like tonight,
left alone to clear my head,
I find myself
thinking about you.
And you.
And you.