Moth

Moth

We burned our tongues after the coffee,
after the red head did her cartwheel,
after the Monkees and the Beatles,
we burned our tongues on the truth.

The evening twiddled its dimmer switch.
You and I lowered ourselves into the
lukewarm water of the truth, creeping
closer across two lilac sofas, we spoke

about the courtly love conceit which has
kept us either side of an invisible wall
blowing kisses through a chink. We
choked on the truth, knowing it would

overwhelm us, knowing it would eat us
for breakfast. In the bitter gloaming I tried
to get under your skin, kissing the wool of
your cardigan, I squirmed closer to your

soul, wriggled amongst your scent, amid the
pink, sweet, cloud. It dizzied me. The enormity
of what we have dizzied me and it seemed as if
I would wring you out with my deep squeezes

trying in my fingers and forearms to explain and
knowing that there were no words. It all comes to
an end sooner or later. Each day is a death, and
we are a dark and beautiful moth facing the winter.