Half a century love

I have written in rage 
I have written in sorrow 
I have written in despair
but never have I written in love.
What could I write?

Once was a child, who felt her heart was made of darkness. 
Who felt no light in her core as she was all alone. 
She felt wrong, She felt desolate, She felt ferociously defective. 
As she grew- so did her her walls.

Once was a man with a voice so radiant and vibrant- it lit a fire.
Her guarded wall, turned to ash.

Behind his light eyes, there was a lonely boy, whose soul had been dismantled and cut. 
He was put back together but still his scars remained.
He felt wrong, he felt desolate 
He felt ferociously defective. 
Yet when he spoke, he spoke with such passion.
When he touched, he touched with such tenderness.
When he made love, he caressed with such longing and desire. 

She in turn, felt the lips of someone's love that she longed to have.
She held the hands of someone's acceptance.
She laid with the frame of someone's protection.
She was held by someone's hope and love.

Finally, oh finally, could she write in love.