It was one thing that I liked most,
for here I was the guest, and was the host,
my memories stored in it like some treasure,
and which I often visited at my leisure, 
in which scribbled words lay scattered,
a few flashes of joy, some dreams shattered,
some moments of truth, some lies of time,
but whatever they were, they were all mine,
I cared and handled it with utmost care,
as best as I could, I carried it everywhere,
then came a time when my friend announced,
she was leaving the country, I felt trounced,
she spoke to me with her desires masked,
how would you like me to remember you, she asked,
I knew it wasn't a request, nor an inquiry,
taking it out quietly, I handed her my diary,
nothing is more valuable to me, I said,
she gleefully accepted it as the bonding thread,
it has been a little more than thirty years now,
I sometimes miss the friend, the diary and how,
Not sure where they are but I have made amends,
for after the diary I have only written for friends;