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 banishes the heartache's cry.

But still, the meaning of this life I find,
Lies between her touch, where soul meets skin,
In every stroke, a glimpse of love enshrined,
In every quiver, ecstasy's akin.

Beneath the moon, a haunting waltz begins,
To effervescent enchanting, eerie rhyme,
With macabre themes and trembling violins,
In equal words, behold the passage of time.

The passage of time, a ghostly specter,
Leads me to her touch, so mystical and rare,
Through autumn's mist, as shadows grow darker,
Her touch, a balm for all my deep despair.

So let these quatrains be a mournful ode,
To the touch that I have known, and yet honest,
A heart so chilled by darkness and by cold,
A longing for her touch, promising, but not promised.
© NightSwimThePoet