To me, you'll always be a burgeoning carnation beside withered tulips,
You never fail to shield me like how the moon stitches itself to the sun in a solar eclipse.

I want to do the same for you, but don't know how to mend anything when the seams of your tapestry brittle,
I can't embroider, nor can I sew but if it's for you, I'll try, little by little,

If you'll let my thread pass your torn fabric, I promise to tend as well as I can,
Even if my fingers become indigo with tedium, I'll intertwine with all I am.

Silken heart of the purest fragility,
Luminescent in ebony, but still supple with tranquillity.

I'd like to be the same for you, but I don't know how to be anything more than bitter candlelight,
I can't give the lustre you need, but I'll try, in hopes one day I might,

If one dusk, I'm even a flitter more to you than a *** of wax sat on your windowsill,
If that ever happens, to give you light, I'll perch forever content, without an Until.