When night arrives, it circles 'round,
The dream once lost is newly found.
I dream of her, with tangled hair,
Her skin like spring—so smooth, so fair.
Warm, slender hands run through my hair,
A fragile form that, held, might tear.
But morning comes—its blinding light,
The dream dissolves, fades out of sight.
No sounds remain, no vision clear,
Just silence loud, and nothing...
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