Moths to a Flame

We found it that day, sometime in August.
It was burning the first time we picked it up, right?
I still recall that fiery red,
Your eyes too reflecting the same.
We took it home and calmed it down,
To a glowing coal;
A steady one though.
Everyday we’d keep it close, keep it glowing.
Some days together under the stars.
Other days when you’d look away, I’d be up the whole night,
Fanning it,
And whispering tales of a long winding road ahead.
Times would come when I’d falter,
And it’d slip from my hands.
You’d place it gently in that little teak box,
With the silver mirror beneath the lid,
Till I’d return from the woods.

And on the shivering December nights away,
It would in turn warm us.
I recall days when suddenly it would pulsate.
We’d be holding it tight,
And it’d scorch my hands and chest.
I bear those scars still,
For when I’m broken down to shards of tears and smiles,
And fed into the hourglass.


That bright afternoon in late April,
It dissolved into the sun.

We see it no more, yet only to the eyes is it gone.
It still flickers and flares somewhere, I’m sure;
In some recess, some alleyway.
It breathes and thrives,
All on its own.
That lost speckle in the dark belongs to us,
And us alone.
No one will ever see it; no one will pick it up.
But it will rest there, just an infant ember,
Always the same,
Always ours…