I am a moth fluttering through hotel rooms. Who has been birthed in the wrong year and cannot escape the night-hour. I am a moth who calls out through silent dance. Who coos to the old romantic light.
The sky falls upon your palms each afternoon and the weight of near lost day seems to stir you until there is only one thing left to do; to take your old hands out from locked pockets and pluck me from the cold soil. And my wings spread for you. Here in our dusk I am so small and fragile, so open for you. And you smell of all things that I adore each second, more and more. And more so, you smell of You.
And I am touched. If only through your vision to hold me in the light, if only for an afternoon. How desperately I wish to live all days with you, how terribly I wish to dance night into your arms.