Your fingers pull at the threads of my soul. They coax words from me like coddling flames from dusty coals. I thought I was ashes and dust. A memory of a fire long burnt out. But the words pour from my veins. I write on slips of paper, in coffee stained notebooks. I write on the wind and sky. I write. A flame flickers to life. The words weaving the tapestry of our love. The fire dances. And I write. And I write.