A small white moth just stopped moving.
So stainless it's frail wings, so pitch black it's big eyes. It doesn't have any lid to signal it's eternal slumber.
Rejoice, tiny moth.
You get to fly for a little more, sustained by my breath.
Such is the power of your fantasy.
A flame that waves between right and wrong, that's your ultimate destination.
But be careful. Should you speak of our encounter, you'll crumble into ashes, vanishing with a morning breeze.
Goodbye, good luck - my beloved.