This woman held a part of her who’d stitched themself within the fur; that daughter claiming precious space would be a great internal face. Still what she sought was someplace else to make a hearth and find her health. The love she’d need could not be built till one would come for all she’d spilt. She wouldn’t seek another face—no need for friends without such grace—two precious hearts which loved like fire had set a stake for freedom’s pyre. Between them they would graft enough of all they’d need; most precious stuff. One would be the boss to own—her girl would play and rest and moan. To not resist—to let her take—to give it all—her soul would break—to pour into—to make it right—to give her lover every night. Challengers would be seen out without a single wavered shout. There wasn’t hope to join the fun, for these two girls had become one.
