(04 October 1943 / Germany)

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I sat up straight.
'Twas in the night.
Though not afraid,
my chest was tight.

I'd felt a gentle, loving touch
upon my ribs, by knowing hands.
And it had startled me so much,
my heart, whipped by adrenal glands,
first skipped, then jumped, then settled back,
as it had recognised those fingers:
Well manicured, and with a knack
to touch just briefly, make it linger.
Imprint then in your DNA
their carnal message for my soul.
And, once received the print will stay,
await a future when its role
as maître d' of all caresses,
may be required to instill
sheer confidence when under dresses.
Those digits cause a certain thrill.

It took me minutes to receive
all of this message, half awake.
This loving touch was no reprieve,
but, if not real was it fake?
And then the shutters of my eyes
snapped up, so I obtained good vision.
Just emptiness in bold disguise
was present, so, for a decision
of what had happened in my sleep,
when loving hands had wandered over,
perhaps with promises to keep?
I think that in my search for clover
the quatre feuille, four lucky petals,
its secret could then be revealed.
So when this puzzle finally settles,
that day, when both my lips are sealed-
as sadness wraps around my chest.

She left so many moons ago.
As for tonight, she was a guest,
just in my dream.
I miss her so.

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