"If the eye is a reflection of the soul, then my eyes show both starvation and flood, both drought and pregnancy."

I have inherited all the moods and colors of humanity and they are smashed in shards in my eyes, but only somebody close enough to see your soul could see my shattered colors . . .

Abbi reads my words over and over again, about my lover Ananda, until her eyes are glazed with heat or sadness: "Ananda keeps her eyes open when we kiss. Our eyelashes touch as we make love. She is always surprised. By what? The depth of my desire? Or by her desire for depth?"

She slips into the crevasse of my eye, nothing to hold onto, no brown nor black or even blue, just a muted kaleidoscope of a million dreams, reaching like anemone for sustenance, yearning like lost souls for purchase, for a tiny proof of firm ground, for the terra firma in the bottom of her heart . . .

Don't wait for love. It spoils too quickly to fit into your schedule and plans. Grasp it and hang on. You'll love the scars of every bramble and cactus needle. You'll touch them later, a long time from now, like badges of honor. Love was here and left its mark on my skin and heart.

For most people, I am at a distance an avid, energetic lover of life, howling in protest against death, whining with fear before the end of both of us, you and me, comes as a shocking surprise. Is this it, really?

Smiles are formed from pain, a lava jolted loose by the geologies of joy. The molten flow is boiled by hurt. If love and pain are symmetric elements, then it figures the biggest explosions of happiness require twin sufferings of paralyzing agony.

These eyes have graced a thousand magazines, usually accompanied by a horny smile or an attitude that made Abbi look as if she was on her way to an orgy. "If you only knew how much time I've lost waiting for excitement . . ."

This picture has always been one of my favorites. The lines of shade and bright make the image, but for me the real attraction is the distance Abbi puts between herself and my lens. She is traveling with me, slowly becoming sucked into my orbit, gradually being crushed by my gravity, and she is wise enough to pull back, and view each new candy with suspicion.

This photo is completely unaltered. As shot, except for the crop. This is the sort of light I adore, full of pensive possibility and unadorned architectures.

We'd just been out with Artie diving the reefs off the keys, chasing turtles and stingrays, but that watery experience might as well have been from another day, another world, another existence. Abbi's ability to be in the moment, without connection to her life at home, to her country or family, to her schedule or her habits, was utterly complete. In this picture, she is nowhere else. How many times have I shot models in poses like these who drag their lives into the frame? I resolve now, again, not to shoot somebody unless they can leave everything behind them that is not themselves . . .

Sexuality when it is frank and stripped of cheesecake can alarm people to brutal anger. It threatens anyone uncomfortable with his own base urges, of course, but it also devastates anyone who knows its murky secrets will never be available to touch or taste or test. Abbi would slowly grow more uncomfortable with posing nude because of the pain she knew it gave lonely or impotent men. Is sexuality best kept in the open, celebrated as a vital part of being an animal, or kept closeted to prevent crippling pain to people no longer able to express themselves as animals seeking pleasure and permanence?

We listened to Idir's "Identites" and Jonelle Vette's "Bound" as we drove the hills and Mayan ruins of Belize, and we listened to the songs exclusively, all day, over and over, until the discs skipped from the heat of repeated plays. There is an Arabic proverb: "When you have a friend do not lick him all up." It's an advice to enjoy friendship with patience; Abbi and I were oblivious to this strategy. The world is tasty. Eat it and share its flavors with anyone you can, especially those poor fools trapped in a routine that erases most possibilities from a lifetime shackled to habit and responsibility.

Exit. Go. New horizons are waiting, and I can't strangle memories by lamenting your departure. You have to let go, don't you? It's the most basic act of love, letting go. As the most basic act of life is saying goodbye.

An image lingers in the cinema of your mind, burnt across the retina. Which image and why? An invitation or a refusal? A touch, or a trap? Does it matter what the image captures, or does it matter that you remember?