moths

It’s the cup of coffee to carry you over. It’s the cup of coffee to the other side of the night. The remorseful dose to hold you to the harrow. The barbed hardships and the going it alones. A whetstone for dulled attentions, a little edge against the deep blue tides. Focus on far horizons and a few choice exhortations. A chance to turn off the inside eyes.

The day each day weighs me down. The night all night gnaws at my tethers. All flaws and harrows. All painted in corners and clattering locks. Knowing the alone is only gaining momentum, and the woe isn’t even up to speed. Nothing to do but turn it into words. Nothing much to do at all.

It’s the sort of love that needs to step on your toes. It’s the sort of love that is bound to steal your sheets. It’s a crowd you in the kitchen, leave the room a wreck love. Only it lives where you never are, and it can’t find what it doesn’t know. It’s there with the lights on, worrying the floorboards in soliloquy. It’s there, wholeheartedly keeping company with the love left on. But for the moths, alone.