[Verse] Hands glide smooth, ink on pages fly, Dappled sunlight through the window, clear sky. Stories drift like incense in the air, Healing weary muscles, pulling words from thin air. [Verse 2] Footsteps soft, rhythm all her own, Inky fingers, spine-chiller tones. Papers scattered like leaves in the fall, She kneads tense knots and weaves magic for all. [Chorus] Healing wordsmith with tales to write, Hands of a healer, mind shining bright. Therapeutic touch, narrative might, Stories and massages in the soft candlelight. [Verse 3] Book sleeves stained with oil and sweat, Massage bench worn, but no regrets yet. Fingers paint worlds, pages take flight, Soothing both the body and soul come night. [Bridge] Ink smears, hands twist, Muscles ease, she can't miss. Rhymes and rubs in perfect bliss, Whispers tales that don't exist. [Verse 4] Metaphors blend with lavender scent, Words flow, bodies bent. Rolling muscles, plot twists sharp, From massages to novels, she leaves her mark.
