The Moth Returns

I cling, I flutter to the warmth of sweaters.  I beat myself against the glass of a lightbulb, please, please just give me the light. I can’t reach it, a golden reminisce, a human being who has lost her humanity in the time that has passed. It’s been a good week, considering. It’s been a good day, considering. Despite her beating against the glass. Sometimes I could almost touch you, you know. I feel like you’re still here, inside my brain. I wish I could trade all of my second chances, for one for you. All of the other golden suns whisper in their orbs, inside the canister of my brain. I find and examine all of the old feelings, the guilt that will never be forgotten, the ache so familiar it’s as my mother’s perfume, and the feel of the cool evening sticking to my skin. Streetlamps, my stalwart companions, you know me, you see me. I can not hide from you. Please Please, just give me the light.

A moth is fluttering on the pavement, skittering on grass cuttings. It’s wings are damp from the midnight air, and broken from wear. I put my hand down, but I realize that it will die anyways and so I walk on.

I’m sorry.

Love on Comrades. Good night.

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