I was a moth
drawn to your flame
once.
I was a moth
when I saw your candle
extinguish
from afar.
I was a moth
being burned by your embers
touching
the scales on my wings.
I was a moth
on your doorstep;
I fluttered about the light on your front porch
while
you kissed her goodnight.
I was a moth;
I was a moth;
I am a moth,
and I am dying.
I am a moth,
and there is little time left for me.
For, in a month,
the magnetism will cease,
and the flame
will burn out.
Then what is left?