“...every time I look at you autumn leaves come in between - does it matter they're the color of your hair - or they still fall in my memory?...”

“...I pluck every day from my sweater or chair, red hairs...strands of significance, traces of you in my life ...”

“...strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...”

“...I'm innocent still -inside me are stained glass windows that have never been broken- and when I see your light it stains my soul with color ...”

“...those others - they're looking for trends - subjects to catch a spark - but I have you - a coal from God's altar - a star cupped in my hands...”

“....you were a jumble of broken bits of glass the sun caught and stained my soul with your colors....”

“...does it seem strange in the loneliness of the present time, that I run to you?...”