Every day at twilight,
you arrive at my window, against the harsh winds you fight,
you drop the letter into my hands - making sure I've held it tight.
I do not know if this is childish, wrong or right,
but my jealousy for you has reached a new height.
Don't shoot the messenger they used to site,
but how can I only feel gratitude in return for this rite,
when all I want is to fly like you, underneath as the city glows bright,
fly till I reach where everyday you come from in the night,
and instead of you, it is me that he holds tight.