You didn't suggest a new topic, so I'll use the last line of your poem: Dreaming of your love.

This house I've never seen
but it is mine in this dream.

Arranging strange coffee cups
It seems that I am waiting for you to get up.

Your barefoot step is on the stair
and you appear pulling knots out of your hair

And grin that miraculous grin of yours, and say,
"Didn't we get a paper today?"

Handing over a folded newspaper
and can't speak, and can barely even hear.

Trembling I hand you coffee in a strange coffee cup
But before I can say "good morning, my dear" to you this one last time
I wake up.

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