In darkest nights of cold and dark despair,
A touch, so delicate, like Jasmine's bloom,
A loving woman's fingers through my hair,
Her gentlest touch, my tormented soul consumes.

Consumed by longing for her heavenly hold,
Her palm against my skin, so promising,
But promises are fleeting, though foretold,
My yearning heart still stays, forever dreaming.

Oh, a warmth that's promising, but not promised,
In shadows, evil whispers wait and pry,
A cyclic dance of heartache and tarnish,
Till her touch...