Every night we dance Rizzoli, a moan. Isles Outward nochalance in the morn Transformed As night falls. Our bodies Sing. As we lose ourselves in love once more
Touch, So gentle, soft. A brush, painting a canvas on her back. Jane, she moaned A whispered cry A jagged line traced. A scar, Isles said Yes, she replied. A reminder of a touch gone wrong
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot