They all start the same,
Three stars on a page.

Well, they're not really stars, are they?
Just three circles with some extending rays.

But they must bring luck, or maybe inspiration,
Since I can still write with my muse on vacation...

Three hours I searched for that airport, lost on the highway,
Man, if I'd have found it, I'd have parked right on the runway.

I didn't, I stalled on a service road, out of gas and engine dead,
And laid on the cold concrete, contemplating blowing off my head.

I need not have worried, or wasted my time on doubt,
'Cause when her plane flew over it obligingly tore my heart out.

Three days I waited to hear if she'd landed,
It'd still be another three weeks before I felt abandoned.

Three years later I was still waiting, did I give up too soon,
The night my heart broke under the October moon?

I knew she was standing under that same autumn sky,
But I finally understood,
That she stood under it with some other guy.

These stars are all I have left of her, nearly three decades later,
Three thousand stars on a thousand pages,
That are really just the holes in old notebook paper.