Soften my blades, sharpen my feather, dropped from her back, ripped from her back.

Because we are young only once.
Because we'll be old only once.

And it will be too late only once, for every new late coming shows us how naive we were, thinking every time it was the last.


No, I promise. I will be here when, if ever, you shan't see me as a cursed ghost, but as a kinderly warmth close to you. So, feel free to feel me.