Coffee hour

Coffee time

I don’t care how you call it,

With her it’s fine.


I knock on her door during the afternoon- She keeps telling me, my blue eyes remind her of her daughter that she was holding as a proud mother into her arms. (She keeps telling me her daughter was born then, on the world so soon)


Even when I ain’t her daughter, 

I like to dream about how it would have been if I stood in her daughters shoes


And she carreses my cheeks

with my summer freckles

Her eyes are sparkling with a warm glow

When she looks at me

I feel something sweet tickling in the place of my stomach, down below


So lovely, sweet, as a mother can be

I know I’m not her daughter

But I absolutely love to be


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