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Ego Ella May 「Honey For Wounds」より
「Give a little 」
Give a Little (feat. Maverick Sabre) [Blue Lab Beats Remix]
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いなほちゃん。🌾
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『 あなたのその傷を知恵に変えなさい。』
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5
なな
Through the silent corridors of longing,
Before your shadow fades from my hands?
Tears fall like whispered secrets,
Tracing the invisible scars etched within my soul.
Love bloomed—a fragile glass flower,
Shattered softly beneath the weight of unspoken words.
With trembling, unsteady hands,
We grasped at threads of fragile light,
Only to watch them scatter in the restless breeze.
Yet in the stillness of this aching silence,
I cradle a silent prayer—
A gentle hymn to you,
Carried on the breath of fading stars.
Until the tender balm of time caresses my wounds,
I wrap myself in quiet solitude,
Holding the fragile pieces of my heart close.
13なな
Milky Way
A woman met a man.
He was always busy —
work,
and the quiet gravity of raising a child,
especially on weekends.
In the soft tangle of their lives,
she stood at a distance,
watching him
like someone studying the moon
without knowing its language.
But he was kind,
gently consistent.
He opened doors without asking.
Listened with his eyes.
Never rushed.
She wanted to understand
the world behind his silences —
so she scattered herself across
the pages of the books he loved,
tracing underlined sentences,
searching for fingerprints
in borrowed thoughts.
And quietly,
without permission,
she fell.
They built soft mornings —
half-spoken smiles,
the clink of cups,
laughter tucked into pillow folds,
light warming the floor
where no words were needed.
But he carried
carefully folded wounds:
a divorce,
a quiet betrayal,
sorrow pressed deep
beneath a practiced smile.
Time passed
as it always does,
and small things
grew teeth.
They argued,
not to win,
but to be seen.
To hold their truths
in the same room
without flinching.
But they were not ready.
Still learning
how to keep love safe
from the weight of their histories.
So they stepped back.
Gently.
With trembling hands
that had once held each other
without fear.
They don’t speak of it now.
But she keeps the book
with his notes in the margin
of page ninety-four.
And he still,
on certain quiet evenings,
pauses
as if listening for a voice
that once knew his name
better than he did.
Their paths parted —
but not their light.
That love,
soft and ancient,
still spills across their skies —
not fading,
but scattering
like the Milky Way:
separate,
but forever
part of the same night.
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