JD, O gentle hush that stirs ’twixt sleep and wake, Where shadows paint what waking light forsakes, There lies a dream I never yet could hold, Though oft it brushed me with its breath so bold. It is a touch—not rough, nor sharp, nor fleet, But like the sea that laps the yielding beach. A woman’s hand, aye, but more than hand alone— The weightless press of presence once unknown. What cruel jest is this? To feel and not recall? To wake with ache, yet no true cause at all? To carry love whose vessel hath no name, And hunger for a ghost I cannot claim?