Pyjama less morning
We are those two chickens on cloud nine who once will have to give up flying.
Our wings are already getting overloaded.
And look my thights have no feathers.
Once we'll have to find more stable jobs and move to concrete anthill with linearshape.
The only etheral thing there will be little trees on balcony.
The city will lost magic since we won't have enough space to wonder trough it's streets with an open mind.
But every once in a while I'll be your witch again.
Your smile stolen from babie's face, your friendly offer of snacks, your coworker of eternity.
Tender body frame walking in your shirt to make you coffee in the morning.