Moths (poem)


I watch fallen leaves
swirl on my walk home
until they eventually twisted
into something like moths
from my memory:

These moths,
bathed in dust and sunlight
had fluttered out of reach
from my hands.

You were the moth
who swallowed my prey
and when I prayed for forgiveness
still, you flew away
and back and away.

For five years, I’ve lost
all the times we spent
chasing moths and laughter
with each setting sun
until dusk broke the spell
and you drove me away.

I, lost for five years,
have realized that happiness
wasn’t from chasing moths
or laughter,
but to be free
from the chase.

— The Finicky Cynic

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