I handed you the key To a room, Delicate and scarred. To a place, Wrecked and broken, Torn and pulled apart. You pulled the strings I danced along, Not to the songs of my heart But yours. Those songs Are the one's I call favourite now. Now this room felt like A blooming garden of roses, The one without thorns, With a fragrance too sweet! You were the muse, As the ink flowed right through my fingers, Onto miles and miles of paper. Unending, I went on and on. Words spilled like rivers in spring, Overflowing, Free And wild. Each line, A dance of dreams. These words I hold within me, So sacredly, On the pages of my life. ~dw Follow @drownwrites on Instagram.