Found

Emptying some bookshelves today, I came across an old treasure…

It seems, my dear, I haven't been entirely honest. This isn't the first time in my life I've put pen to paper. A much earlier, much more naive, much younger me once dabbled in poetry. Oh yes, my love. I am published. If you count high school literary magazines. And some kid's student project.

A year or two, an adolescent trying desperately to express his understanding of his world. Clumsily. It wasn't all, or even mostly about love. Expressions of the joy found in music. Experiments with wordplay. And, sure… a little bit of heartbreak. A little bit of longing.

Then thirty years of silence. Thirty years without inspiration. Thirty years, out of practice.

And then… a flood. An explosion.

A muse. The muse. My muse.

A rediscovery of passion. Passion for words. Passion for music. Passion for love. Simply, passion.

I've said before that you make me feel like a teenager again. I mean that, in so many ways. The roiling, barely controlled emotions of youth. The deep need for expression. Let's not even mention the baser desires.

It's not an accident that I finally started learning to make music around the same time I fell hopelessly in love with you.

A rediscovery of the written word came soon after, even if the form now is different.

You… doing nothing more than just being you… you woke parts of me up that I had nearly forgotten existed.

You made me whole.

Alive.

Awake.

My love. My muse. My everything.

Thank you, for existing. For making my life so much brighter, more colorful, more… amazing. Even with me still over here on the sidelines. I hope one day it can be so much more than that, but for now… thank you for being my muse. For waking me up. For showing me how beautiful things in this world can truly be.

Thank you, my love.

For finding me.