Poem by Herbert Nehrlich
I missed you, little one, twas spirits of the dreams
I rolled and rolled out of your hold, so far away from you
stared at the ceiling, spiderwebs and solid maple beams
I reached but found an empty space still warm like Irish brew.
What woke me was the absence of your pheromones oh yes,
my hands stay warm and somewhat moist so near your trusted place
their image Duerer's praying hands, it's where we coalesce.
Back once again, it's dawn and dew, I see you on m'face.
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