unwritten letters that were addressed to you.

Tonight it's not about me.

We were boys when we met.
He was built of wavy dark hair, rosy cheeks.
The reddest of lips that couldn't belong to anyone but that smiling youth;

An honest look that instantly spoke of intelligence and light.

That was him.

The fiercest intelligence tempered with the kindest ways.

We got a little older.
Cheeks were still rosy.
He developed a striking voice. A strong voice. A kind voice. A voice built for broadcasting.
Had the resolve to pursue his dreams. Was driven.

A heart of a good man trapped in a child's growing body.

We got a little older and larger. We were becoming men.
His heart continued to outgrow his bones. His intelligence inspired us all.
At his core,
He remained an innocent.

As my friends in high school drunkenly and dismissively plotted the demise of some of our classmates, he remained untouched and sacred in our little schemes.
He would remain unscathed. Safe.
We wanted him to win. We knew he would some day.

With the strong bodies of youth and the muddled hearts and hormones of children pretending to be men, we still knew that the good guys had to eventually win.
Isn't that right?

I remember my wife and I running into him at a store a few years back.
Brief conversation. Very pleasant.
I told my wife that I realized that he was one of the good memories of my school days.
It was weird.
We were never especially close, but his presence was always reassuring.
Was a reminder of the good things.
I remember her looking at me and nodding.
Within that briefest of exchanges, she looked at me and said that he was one of the kindest souls she had ever met.
I couldn't help but smile and agree.

He contacted me a little over a year ago.
We talked of a few things. Of following dreams.
We talked of getting together sometime, and catching up.
I wanted to see how one of the last good men was doing.
I knew he had to be winning. I believed in that.
I became too busy. And I forgot.

Today I received a phone call from a close friend.
Told me that this shining beacon with the deep voice from our childhood had passed away.
Had taken his own life.

No.

That can't be right.
He's one of the good guys.
This is not how it's supposed to turn out.
Good eventually wins, right?

Maybe sometimes it becomes a little too dark inside.
Maybe those smiles and kind eyes hide a truth
That we're afraid to share.
Maybe we think no one can understand.
Maybe it just hurts a little too much in the hidden places within that shorten your breath and
Tighten your chest,
The place between your eyes that scream of washed out colors and muted sounds,
Where it's a toss up between pain and numbness as the lesser of two evils.
Maybe the unanswered questions seemed like a better alternative.

Maybe it's too hard sometimes to see life past the point of your nose,
when nothing else seems to exist but the quiet promise whispered from within the black barrel of that gun.

Maybe it becomes too hard to see your own light.
Maybe you spent so much of your time here illuminating everyone else's lives that
Now you're tired, and just need a little rest.

I don't know.

I only know you were and are loved,
Even by those of us who only wished we could have known you better,
Given you a little more of our time.
You will always remain in memory as a reminder of good things,
An embodiment of how kind people can truly be, if they just let themselves.

It's getting late.
You must be so tired.
It's ok.
Get some rest.

Goodnight.

...the place where you would sing with arms stretched to heaven.

It's quiet here.
A cozy, dark corner in a favorite cafe.
I had been running around nonstop.
Needed a few minutes for myself.
Needed to think.
Needed to breathe.

Steam from the coffee in front of me wafting lazily,
Thin threads of moisture and bitter heat dangling in midair.

I look up from my reading,
See a very soft and feminine smile,
Round features framed in thin blonde threads
Falling lazily across a pale and attractive face.

If her lashes were any longer they would kiss her nose.
I enjoy the freckles that lightly brush her cheeks.

She says hi.
Remembers me from some performances.
I guess we had talked before.

Honestly, I don't remember her or our conversation.
I don't want to offend her, though.
I ask how she's doing.

She nervously brushes her hair back behind her ear.
Long, thin fingers.
She could easily play piano.
I see the smooth indentation on her ring finger,
a physical reminder of a wedding band that is conspicuously absent.

It took a long time for my reminder to fade.

I wonder how long it has been for her.
Then I see her eyes;
Not very long.

The things behind her eyes will take longer to heal.
But they will.
She will change.
Will become someone different.
But she'll learn to live again.
Will learn to breathe.

She tells me quietly and vaguely about her life.
Says there have been so many changes lately.
I know.

She and her sons relax nightly to my music.
She says it's crazy, because when listening she thinks that I must understand.
I do.
She doesn't tell me what is that I should understand.
But I know.
She looks at her feet, asks if I think she's just some crazy lady who's annoying a stranger.

"No."

You're not crazy. You're in pain.
You're not annoying. You're reaching out to someone, anyone, to make a connection with, because your
life has turned upside down, and the person who you have been the closest to is gone.

Your world no longer makes sense.

You're not crazy.
You'll smile again. It won't feel the same as before.
That's ok.
Maybe next time it will be better.

Now I wonder if I have been projecting my past onto her through my thoughts.
Seeing things that aren't there.
Maybe I'm the one who's nuts. I almost start laughing at myself.

She asks if she can tell me something.

"Of course."

"I'm... I'm getting divorced and everyone tells me you're kind, and have been there. I just need
someone to talk to."

I stand up and hug her tightly.
Tears falling onto my shoulder.
Long, long talk.
She will smile again.

Later I will write a song about her future,
About the day that her smile will reach her eyes again.

She lived in the twilight when we spoke of fire.

"What are your dreams?"

A friend asked me this question.
I think of it often.

I wish I knew how to tell you some of the things I've seen lately.
Words are never enough.
Music, sometimes nothing more than a glimpse.

A winter sunset over rolling hills,
The names of which I don't know.
Finding an abandoned dirt road that led towards them.
I remember climbing to the top,
Watching the sky illuminated by a torch borne of cold fire.

"What are your dreams?"

She told me that I could be the one.
We had just met.
For a single moment I wanted to believe it.
I knew better. I've heard this before.
Nothing more than simple lusty attractions masked as the stirrings of love.
I remember her sweet yet acrid kiss on a ferry heading to Seattle one night,
Her taste a subtle mingling of smoke and mint.
I remember her tears when she told me she was to wed another.
She ran away from me shortly after that
Like I was Death himself,
Finally come to claim his due.

I just wanted answers.
Too many questions in such a short amount of time.
There were none.
Just smoke and mirrors.
And a kiss.

I receive messages from her on occasion.
She wants to know how I'm doing.
I never respond.
Wouldn't know what to say.

I like the silence better.
Things are prettier without half-assed excuses.

"What are your dreams?"

I wish I could show you the lights of watery cities quietly passing in the long night.
How my heart lives somewhere between the winding paths that I follow at high speed,
And the glittering fingers that always beckon subtly
from outstretched steely hands.

I would share with you how the music playing in my car is somehow always appropriate,
No matter the mood.
Subtle swirling sound that matches the patterns of blurred pavement at night.

"What are your dreams?"

Standing face to face with someone I haven't seen in a long time.
Pleasant person.
Pleasant conversation.
I am very different. See my surroundings with different eyes.
I didn't realize how much I had changed until now.
The world seems much larger to my heart.
I can't understand how I put myself through such hell for this pretty face.
Seems so silly and inconsequential now.

I can't even begin to understand who I was back then.
If I ever had to meet something resembling that self-pitying, flimsy and weak "me",

I would kill him.

It would be the kindest mercy I could bestow on something so sad and pitiful.

"What are your dreams?"

I wish I knew how to explain how my insides light up when I perform,
How strangers can become the greatest of new friends in the space of a song.

I wish I could show you how the hugs of nieces and nephews always make the shadows disappear,
And how the closest of friends and family can tease a smile from a stubborn and sullen face.

My dreams consist of the point in my life when
The upcoming sunrise will clash with an eventual sunset,
And my mind will alight as a peaceful riot of fire
Wrapped up in a tiny song.
I will call it my future.

..how the snowflakes succumbed to your laughs and lashes.

"When you were little, your family called you the Christmas Kid.
You couldn't wait for the holidays to arrive.
How You loved the glitter of lights sparkling in the long night,
The way the tinsel swayed gently on the tree among your favorite ornaments.
There was nothing like that clean, woodsy smell of a real tree filling the house, mingled with
the warm aroma of whatever delectable goody was currently being baked in the oven.
The scents of Christmas were always your favorite.

The beginning of December marked an upcoming school vacation, of shared family time,
And of course the start of that dreadfully long wait until Santa's eventual visit to your chimney.
Your heart would race at these thoughts.
You would be filled with the deepest of smiles and with holiday light.
Hope.
Anything could happen at Christmas time,
and whatever did happen would be good."

I believed in the good things.

Why are we talking about this?

"Christmas Eve, and your mind would be overtaken by the thoughts of what would be lying under that tree.
Minutes would pass so painfully slow on that night.
You would toss and turn.
Eventually, you would always creep out of your bed and sneak down the stairs into the living room.

Had Santa arrived?
No, not yet.

You would then dejectedly skulk silently back to your bedroom for another hour until you could  take it no longer,
and you would sneak out and check again.
You would do this all night, until you became so exhausted that sleep would finally find you in the late hours.
It was a delicious agony for you."

Sometimes I would fall asleep in front of the tree.
I tried so hard on that last visit downstairs to stay awake,
just to greet Santa.
I wanted to say thank you.

"You couldn't wait to play your favorite holiday songs.
Always the classics, right?
Dean Martin and Burl Ives inspired those feelings of holiday cheer within you,
Even in July.
It would be summer, but you just couldn't wait for Christmas to come again.
Holiday music played at full volume in the summer drove your family absolutely crazy.
You wouldn't stop, though.

You were the Christmas Kid, after all."

I wanted to be Santa someday.
I was positive that it could happen.
I just needed the opportunity.
I wanted to make all of the children of the world happy.
Silly thoughts from a silly boy.

"You were young. You still believed in these things."

This is what I want for my nieces, for the children of my closest friends.
I want them to revel in those untarnished holiday hopes and dreams.
I want them to be able to believe in anything.

Those things filled me with happiness.
With hope.
With smiles.

I am different now.
For me,
That was then...
Past tense.
I remember those things as nothing more than some half-remembered nostalgia
Of a distant youth.

It may as well have been something I watched on the television.
Could have happened to someone else.
It may have.

Please just give my heart some room.
I can't breathe when you're this close.

"You really don't want to talk about this, do you?"

It's funny how things change.
Now I just see Christmas as one less day that I can perform somewhere.

"That's a ridiculous statement."

It's completely true.
Now please go, and turn the light off when you leave.

a beggar and a basket of flowers

I told a friend the other day that I fear Heaven.

One of the most honest things that I've ever said.
Hated admitting it, hated knowing that it's true.

When I can't sleep at night,
I stand outside in the cold and resume my relationship with the night sky.

I wanted to forge ahead,
Start a new life.
Delve into those deepest, darkest corners.
Try to understand why I didn't feel good enough for myself.

Make that last cup of coffee.
Know you shouldn't, but
You know sleep's not coming either.
Might as well make the most of it.
Stand in the cold, and watch what's left of your breath compete with the steam from a little warm cup.

Wanted to gain some understanding as to how I really tick,
So that when I made my Grand entrance back into the world
I would be made of happy things, Goodness,
And I would be able to provide warmth and light around me.
Make a change for the better.

This is why I left.

A beautiful Fall night. It's very late.
Stars shining overhead in that dark blue that borders on black.
So quiet and still.
Peaceful,
Except for the voices screaming at the absurdities in my own head.

It's in these moments that I worry that maybe the Egyptians were right about the doors to the afterlife.
When it is my time to say goodbye, will my soul be weighed and found wanting?

What if I can't let go?
What if I don't want to...

What happens if I am let into Heaven by mistake.

Maybe I just want a little space somewhere to catch up with those I so desperately miss.
I promise you won't know I'm here.
I'll be quiet.
Please let me stay a little while,
Then I'll go.

Instead, maybe I'll decide to march up to those glittering gates, and
start a bloody war based on all of the things I refuse to accept, and perhaps demand some damned answers while I'm at it.
Will I use all of the same false bravado I did in life?
Will they see through it?

What happens if I'm asked what I think I'm really worth.

I think there might be a point where you can go too far inside.

Don't forget to leave a light on behind you.

If you're not careful, those persistent little demons will find you,
Creep in so close, claws around your throat, whisper the little things that start to make sense.

Personal demons don't care about zip codes, and
Their moving costs are cheap.
They'll find you.

A lovely couple came to my performance the other night.
They live in another city, came to see me here.
Let me know this with stars in their eyes and music on their minds.

At the end of the night,
He gives me a strong handshake and a smile.
She hugs me close, tells me that she cried the first time she ever saw me play.

I quietly tell her that I understand.
She nods and says she knows...

They saved me from myself for a little while.

I can comprehend hell.
What if it is nothing more than being forgotten,
and being forced to watch life move on in silence.

We like to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.
When you are in the midst of doubting your own self-worth,
Sometimes you can't help but wonder if absence just makes people forget.
Maybe it is supposed to be that way sometimes.

I can understand it, though.
Some people's faces have been painted over with the colors that remind me of them.

Ah, she was the greenest jade, bright and glittering in her movements, and luminescent in the lives she touched.
He was shades of sky blue, a calm color that eased those around him as well as inspired those closest with a heart that reached out to the horizon.
..and she was at times those deepest reds tinged with orange, passions fed with abundance until things changed again, and then the fiercest of silent furies when the hurt began.

What if you're asked why you could never commit,
Choosing instead to keep your options open.
Followed a religion based in black coffee and cigarettes,
and worshipped in a temple built from insomnia and self-doubt.

What if the only thing you feared more than Heaven
Is your own refusal to see it.

we use kindling here.

We were young and arrogant.
We had all of the answers.
We were intelligent. Extremely.
We didn't need to listen.
We already knew the truth of things,
and a thousand curses on you if you told us differently.

We would sit in our little groups
and preach to our beautiful choir.
No dissent allowed.
We knew we were right.
Of course we were.
We all agreed.
And we would win the world over someday.

No need to listen to the opposition.
They were wrong.
"They" soon became a faceless entity.
Sometimes it was an organization. Maybe an occupation.
Didn't matter who the recipient was of our ire at the time.
They were going to burn from our fury.
We would make things right.

I remember those times.
There was no room for compassion. No need for debate.
"They" were out there.
If you disagreed, then you must be part of the problem, and not as smart as we were.
You couldn't quote famous authors and wax poetic like we could.
I was an ass.

Good intentions.
No one ever thinks it's going to turn out that way.
It always starts small.
A little intention. Less communication.
A lot of passion.

I remember when things changed.
Life happens.
You learn what it is to be wrong.

Dear God, there has to be a better way.
Through humility,
through a deep yearning to understand our differences,
through listening better and talking less.

A quieter way. Softer ways to change a flawed and imperfect system made from flawed and imperfect humanity.
We forget sometimes that those are the things that make us all so beautiful and unique.
Flaws and cracks.
Pain and renewal.

A way without the trendy words that inevitably bring fear into my heart.
I'm well-versed enough to know what revolution really means.
I'm young enough to be idealistic,
Old enough to remember reading and seeing similar beginnings elsewhere. Other times.
I remember what happened.
In many cases, "We" eventually became the next "They".
The wheel turned.

Once upon a time we used to burn witches.
"They" were evil.
"They" needed to be brought to Justice, and they were.
"They" were our daughters.

Never had a chance.

Remember when "They" happened to still be living in the place we were trying to call home?
How dare they...
"They" were savages.
Not as intelligent as we were.
"They" were different.
"They" were part of the problem.
Life would be better without them.
Remember?
We took care of that, killed several thousand along the way. Moved the rest.
But we were right.
We were civilized.

Remember when "They" wanted the right to vote?
What nerve! The great thinkers were quoted in papers across the country
Proclaiming that this would lead to the moral degeneration of a great land.
Why should "the common and uneducated" be given the right to choose.
"They're" not smart enough to know what is right for them, we said.
We called it fact.
We were wrong, weren't we..
We, "the enlightened", were filled with our own arrogance.

I thank God that women still gained the right to vote.

I pray dearly that one day
We no longer think we are superior,
No longer claim to have all of the answers.
We can understand that our gifts of intelligence and good intentions should be tempered with compassion,
A deep knowing that if you truly
have something to say,
then maybe first you should be quiet and
Better damn well learn to listen as well.
I pray that we can overcome our own arrogance and self-importance.
Gain the insight that "they" are made up of people just like you and I.
With families.
With passions.
With lives.

I'll be honest.
I'm just a man, no one in particular.
No great answers to be found here. Just love to play guitar.
I will respect anyone
Who is willing to take the hard roads,
Unpopular paths that lead to shutting the hell up and really listening first before speaking, acting, or reacting.
There will be time for those things later.
Maybe then with a little insight and a lot of patience things can be different.

I can't help but remember
That we used to burn witches, too.

quiet & proud

He was built of light and smiles.
A quiet man.
Dignified.
He collected darts, and the love of those around him.
I always looked forward to our time together.

He was a man who always inspired me to be more compassionate.
To try and listen more.
To try harder.
Never give up.

Didn't say much.
When he did, you listened.
A man whose soft words fell like diamonds from his lips.
You always knew it was important.
You always knew he loved you.
You always knew that there were angels manifested in flesh, and they would always protect you with their prayers and hugs.
You knew.

Damnit, you knew.

Such a perfect contrast/compliment to his outgoing and bubbly wife.
Both so loving.
Just different ways of showing it.

I remember my first communion.
I was a little older than you normally are when these things typically happen.
They visited from Canada for this.
He was so proud.
We were a Catholic family, you see.
He was beaming, standing tall.
Proud.
He had one of those smiles that reached his eyes that day.
Huge hug. Told me how proud he was to be my Godfather.
Said he loved me so much.
I would never doubt that.
Not once. Not ever.
I always knew.

Goddamnit, I knew.

He always proved it in his patience, his wisdom.
His quiet and caring ways.

I became older. Those hugs became strong handshakes. I was now a man.
They always felt like hugs to me.
That first handshake was a rite of passage to me.
A sign of adulthood and respect.
His smile still made his eyes shine and sparkle.

He always looked directly into your eyes.
There was never any room for deceit.
Couldn't be.
Just wasn't a part of him.
Too honest for that.

He became older, lost the ability to speak.
Wrote his words on paper.
Measured them carefully, wrote only when he needed to.
His scrawl was just like his speech.
Never a wasted or unnecessary phrase.

Saw him less than 2 months ago.
Was still that symbol of strong dignity and quiet pride.
And love.
Was a good visit.

He will always be that shining beacon,
Glittering hope in the dark.
Proof of what humanity can become if they let themselves.
I love my Godfather.

I will miss him.

ours was a kingdom built of flattery and flowers.

Performing tonight.
It's getting colder. I'm getting used to a different kind of chill.
Damp air that gets inside, doesn't like to shake loose. Different than where I'm from.
Not bad. Just an adjustment.

I love this place.
A creative haven on a beautiful island.
I know this setting intimately.

Inside, the venue is warm with the smiles and closed eyes of those in attendance.
I feel that fire inside.
The show starts off well.
There's just something about tonight.
You can feel it.
Positive energy and positive feedback.
Something is building as I continue to play.

The night moves on.
Couples slowly stand, move to the side, begin to dance in subtle rhythms together.
The cafe transforms into a ballroom made from dim yellow light, and the sounds of a single guitar..
All rhythm and heartbeats.

Just as sacred as the sex of the soulbound,
Just as powerful as the heartsick words written anonymously on a faded concrete wall.

The music changes of its own accord to accommodate.
Songs become longer, rewrite themselves.
My heart beats faster.

At times there is more urgency,
More speed,
Like the fluttering heartbeat of that love struck boy dancing with his desire
for the first time.

The dancers sway and move, not anticipating the next note, but guiding and dictating the music's path with their bodies.
So beautiful.

I can no longer separate the idea of me from melody.
We were defining and being defined by the music.
So very beautiful.

Later that evening I would meet a woman.
A brief moment of star-watching,
of greetings and goodbyes.
Whirlwind introductions and
Quicker exits.

It wouldn't work out.

In a quiet moment, the memory of this would help me finish a song.
There is some solace in that.

I wonder if she was just another ghost,
Come to haunt me for a short time
Before disappearing back into the ether.

Next day.

Different city.
Afternoon performance during a pretty Fall day.
Color is everywhere.
Cars racing by, people walking and chatting.
The bustle of a busy city on a beautiful day.
The venue is part of another world.
Walk in, and close the door behind me.

The sound of the city instantly disappears.

It is cozy here, intimate.
Peaceful.
The scent of aged woods and strong coffee permeates everything.
Afternoon light delicately peeking through old glass windows.
So very peaceful.

Calm is everywhere but in me.
It's not frantic or electrifying.
It's not so obvious.
Today the chaos feels like a slow burn.

This performance would be different than the night before.
My interactions with the audience would be quieter, more subdued, maybe even shy, but
I would play like something inside me was quietly demanding to spill it's secrets.
If left unchecked, even this smallest of peasant-voices would demand an audience with the (heart) royalty that always seems to rule my brains.

I fall into the color of melodies as I play.
Children are smiling. Happy parents laugh with them.
Content couples are pointing to the guitarist who "makes the flowers fall from his fingertips".

I loved hearing that description.

I'm holding it in.
At least I think I am.
Not for long.
Something is building in me.

The afternoon progresses.
More people in attendance now.

The mood is changing.
Swirling beauty in a soft setting, but now with that dark tinge and taint that reminds me of stolen kisses in a graveyard.
Still lovely, but with the subtle allure that the mysterious always brings.

A song finishes itself in an unexpected way.
I like where it ended.
I look up.
A woman near the back of the room is now crying.
I see her lips mouth the words "beautiful".

Begin to feel a bit better.
I offered them a little beauty.
They gave me so much release.

I think I received the better part of this deal.

It's In The Way You Move...

A beautiful evening on an island.
The air is crisp and cool, that perfect damp chill that comes with the Fall.
This is when I come alive.

I performed tonight.
It was an unforgettable show, full of dancing and soft light.

That's a different story, though.

I'm waiting for the ferry to take me across the water and closer to home.
Just gotten off the phone with my father.
It's good to hear his voice.
Good to know he's ok.

Standing on the dock by my car. Ferry's nowhere in sight.
It's running late.
I'm leaning over the railing, looking down at light reflected on inky black.
A little lost in thought.

"I never usually ask a stranger this, but do you happen to have an extra cigarette?"
Very soft feminine voice behind me.
I forgot I was even smoking.
Turn around.
Lightning in the form of two emerald eyes.
Delicate features framed by dark, shoulder-length hair.
She's not much more than 5 feet tall.
About my age.
Graceful, yet in a slightly clumsy way.. adorable.

Exquisite.

I reach into my pocket, grab a cigarette, light it, and hand it to her.
She inhales deeply, thanks me.
We begin to chat. Seems natural.

A while later we are lying on the hood of my car staring at the few stars peeking out from the thick clouds above, and talking.
The engine is still warm, providing a cozy contrast to this chill in the air.
Still no ferry.
Fine by me.
Timing is everything.

We talk about so much in such a short time.
Personal things.
I try to be guarded. I don't know her.
It's not working.
She seems to be trying as well.

This is madness.

Sheer unexplainable attraction.
I want to shut down. She seems hesitant.
We keep looking into each other's eyes and smiling.
This makes no sense.

I'm scared.

She asks what I'm doing on the island.
I try to talk about my performance, and my music.
Feeling a little shy.
She looks at me, tells me I'm blushing.
I blush more.

She abruptly sits up, all smiles, almost slides off the car. Catches herself by grabbing my arm.
Now she's blushing a little.
She wants to hear my music. Can she check it out somewhere? She pulls out her phone.
I tell her about my little music app. She downloads it.
She loves the names of the songs,
Decides to listen to "Reminded of Light".
It ends. A tilt of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
She listens to "Beauty Undefined".
Looks up at me with the most intriguing look.
"You did this..." more of a statement than a question.
"Yeah."

She starts to say something, and then we notice that the car in front of us has started up, and is moving to board the ferry that we hadn’t noticed appear a few minutes before.
She looks directly into my eyes, quirky smile on her face.
"We have to go." Jumps off the car, runs back to hers somewhere behind me.

I have no idea what the hell just happened.

I park on the ferry.
Need some fresh air.
I head outside.

She finds me.

All smiles. Something else.
"Can I join you?"
"I would like that."
Gives me a hug.
She tells me that this is crazy. She doesn't know me, but feels that I might be the most fantastic person she has ever met.
My heart stirs.

Maybe it's time to try again,
See what happens.

We're watching the lights of the city come into view.
She looks over at me, eyes now a little wet.
"Why couldn't I have met you 6 months ago?"

I don't know what to say.
I don't say anything.

"I'm going back to New York on Monday."
Still quiet. I can tell she's not finished.
The air is feeling a little colder now.
"I'm... I'm getting married in two weeks."

My heart stops. I'm afraid to breathe.

"I'm getting married, and then I meet you... none of it makes any sense.."
She looks so lost.
She kisses my cheek, begins to brush her lips against mine.
Pulls away.
Says that she's sorry.
Runs inside crying.

Stunned.
Confused.
She got through my defenses, and I have no idea how.
My heart is beating fast.
A moment later I run inside. Searching and searching. Never found her.

I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.

Timing is everything.

...and there we lay, among the mindful morning light

My best friend and I were between worlds.
We were still teenagers.
A little older now.
I had left the blessed band of black clothes and poetry.
Things had happened.
Still talked on occasion to my old family.
Was never the same.
I missed them dearly.
I felt lost.
Met a new friend at school. He played guitar.
Asked me to join his band.
Mostly people I'd never met.
Sure, why not.

One of the best things that could have ever happened to me.

Strong connections made instantly.
Different connections.
Through them I met others.
A motley band of geeks and musicians, athletes and dreamers.
Different types of poetry being written in those days.
Less black. More color.
Much more music.

I discovered a love of intimate conversation during late night drives.
Pie nights and coffee.
Dreams yet to be realized, but
The future would soon be ours.
We knew it.
We were winning.

My best friend entered our fold.
Made me so happy.
We grieved the end of the old times together, and rejoiced in new beginnings with this colorful blend of intelligence and warm hearts.

I remember going to my favorite cafe, still filled with focaccia and old dreams, and handing a new dear friend his first cigarette.
Sometimes I could be a bad influence.

They couldn't believe some of the things I had already seen at 17.
I couldn't believe it either.
They helped me feel my age again.
I will always owe them for those smiles.

It was then that I became a best man for the first time.
The band recorded our first (and last) album.
Happy times filled with music and a new life.
We were still winning.

Brief romances.
The band helped me write a song about one of them.
Another was a song with just the singer and I.
We both had our meanings.
The guitar part was written for a tall, lithe beauty framed in dark hair that I hadn't been able to get off my mind.
We still talked then.
She never heard that song.

Old life trickled into the new.
Familiar faces joined this group of friends.
The webs became larger.

Romance seemed to be everywhere.
I now participated.
A long term relationship emerged.
The web changed.
New threads added.
Some threads broke.

She was lovely.
We still talk from time to time.
Has a wonderful husband and children.
She is now part of another's story.

Watched as soulmates orbited each other's stars.
It wasn't quite the time for them.
It would be.
When it finally happened, all would seem right in my world.
I smiled for days when I heard that they had finally married.

They are still close friends in this life.
Took me into their home not that long ago
When I felt aimless, unsure,
armed only with a head full of words and so much determination.
I would make my insides feel right.
I owe them so much.
They are still beautiful.

Back to our story.

Road trips to Canada.
Being pulled over for our silly fearlessness.

Concerts with the band.
One with inflatable toys and autographed cans of cream corn.
Another that ended with most of us dancing in the crowd while playing our last song.
I'll never forget the blonde-haired beauty who I adored pressed up against me that evening.
I played for her that night.

Laughter over coffee.
Smiles and shining eyes glittering in the long night.
Watching sunrises and wondering about the edges of our hearts.
Talks of faith.
Lots of differing perspective and opinion.
All were welcome here.

We were young.
Headstrong and hopeful.
More threads broke.
Other threads rebuilt.
Many-colored lines and hues to our days and nights,
lives that orbited around each other chaotically, lovingly.

Things changed.
They always have to change.
It didn't all end in sadness.
It just changed, life was happening.
Life does that.
Happens.

We are scattered now.
I love them no less.

Actually, I think I love them more.