I pick up my pen;

For the first time in months

I feel as if I have something to write about.

Strange at it may be;

There is something.

Something special and beautiful.

Its rare;

Found only between very few people.

The flame of friendship and of love is bright; brighter than anything we would know.

Mere mortals do not understand it.

Nor do I.

But I do know that from within;

Being protected from all that is out in the world;

Is what is happening.

As my pen flows across the page;

I realize this is not from feelings of now;

But of a memory buried deep within;

Thought to be numb;

But is finally awakening.

To be beautiful and graceful;

In all that it really is.

To be truly thankful for my life as I know it.

Though things my have ended on a sour note with us;

I cannot hold it against you.

Because given the chance;

I would open my heart up again.

To what I fear most.

To being accused of ruining your dreams;

Of damaging your future.

My pen writes the words of my heart;

Which are fed by my burning soul.

Anger and Torment run through me.

I don't care.

The love that was asleep;

Comes forth;

A flower on a new spring day;

That has been asleep;

During the cold, violent winter.

The flower knows life will never be the same;

As do I.

But to live with what I once had;

And what will forever live on in my memory;

Is more than I deserve.