It was only the first night I met you, and I knew
I could get lost in the way the moonlight reflected in your eyes.
But it was nothing compared to your heart,
Your heart and the way it beat in rhythm with mine.

And so that night, and every night,
I did get lost in the way the moonlight reflected in your eyes
But it was nothing compared to the way I saw myself,
When I saw myself reflected in your eyes

And now I will never forget that day,
The day that took a piece of me forever.
Now exists a darkness so deep,
The darkness is threatening to swallow me whole.

And now today, and every day,
I miss seeing the way the moonlight reflects in your eyes,
I miss feeling the synchronized beat of your heart with mine,
And most deeply, I miss the unity of our souls when our eyes met.

I find expression of my inner self
     in putting pencil to the paper.
There's a reason I trust paper
     more than people.
Paper can't talk back;
     it can't judge you,
No critique.
It lets you take things back.
If you're writing in pencil,
                      that is.

~

Taking a trip through my own history, and
suddenly
I have met nostalgia.
Sifting through the mass of hoarded supplies
I find many pencils of times past.

In both ways physical and spiritual
they have traveled the world, and
they have been influential for me.

Some the second life for a tree, and
saturated with the oils of Morocco;
while others, mechanical in their composition, with
beach sand captured in each chamber.

These utensils carrying memories, and
on into the future with destiny to be determined.

~

The night I met her,
She gave me a necklace.
It's silver. A pentagram. A simple little charm.
Two years later, I wear it still.
That necklace became the symbol of her.
People ask me if it's a religious thing,
And I answer no
But wonder privately if it almost is.
I hold it when I am sad, or afraid, or in need of guidance.
I've taken to...
It's silly, really,
I've taken to photographing it wherever I go-
A little silver chain on a park bench in the sun
Or the velvet cushion of a broadway show seat-
A sort of diary of my life, the places I've been,
In relation to her.
The places I've been
And still thought of her.
That necklace has rested on New York coffee counters,
Hung upon branches,
Floated in sandy shallows and caught the light.
I have held it tight during important auditions,
Felt its cold weight upon my chest during funerals,
Rubbed it between my fingers for luck on wide stages,
And pressed its mark into my wrist on lonely silent nights
(To be sure her impression was still indented in my skin.)
I have quietly kept her with me
Through every important moment of my life
And every unimportant one
As well.
People ask, still, sometimes,
Why do I wear that necklace every single day?
I tell them somebody I love gave it to me,
But that simple little explanation seems to fall so pathetically short.
I wear it because even though I hardly see her face anymore
I want to feel her fingers the way I did the night she hung it around my neck,
I wear it because its thump against my chest as I walk
Is a rhythmic reminder never to let her slip from my thoughts
No matter how far I may wander,
I wear it because there is a space in my heart
Just beneath it, under my skin,
That is that perfect, precise shape- a pentagram cutout-
And when I take it off
The hole echoes emptiness
Like the bell tower of a cathedral.

There's something about living in this ice cold desert called loneliness.
Just makes you appreciete the little things in life.

Like when someone gives you a hug,
its like the sun peaks up over the horizon,
filling your body with overwhelming warmth,
melting away all the ice,
thawing out your frozen soul.

Feels so **** good...

You hope that it'll be everlasting and never leave,
but the sun sets,
and it does.

Now your cold again.