"Soft. Your hands. Soft and warm - on my face, on my chest, in my dreams, in the umbrella of a street lamp, under the first streams of morning light. Your hands in the pitch black of night, muscles and tendons dancing between each other in a lover's tango. Fingertips like matches grazing my skin with flame, our scars being the measure of our love. I bare my scars, because I remember the time when your flame danced on me forever, before your hands turned to ice."