I miss the passion

The wine of your lips

Tasting mine.

I miss the summer breezes rustling the

Drapes; the sighs that rose from the divan

As lips and hands both touched the fire

I miss the trembling, the quivering nights

The echoes of love wrought from

Despair spun into desire

I miss the secret hours

I spent in your arms

And in your heart

I miss us, most of all.

08/15/2004

Posted on 08/15/2004
Copyright © 2026 Ken Harnisch