Tonight I peer through the window like a voyeur

as a moth courts my porchlight

for the third night in a row,

 

flitting and flirting like a temptress,

her soft brown wings singeing

each time she gets too close to the heat.

 

She must have it confused

with the moon.

 

If only I could tell her it’s a mirage,

that the artificial light turns on and off

with the flick of a switch,

 

that the lover she seeks

is up higher, much higher,

coupled with stars.

 

But I know she won’t listen,

the pull is too strong

 

and she won’t stop until

the illusion burns away  

her ability to fly.

 

And so I watch through the curtains

as she spirals out to in

then out again

 

slowly disappearing

until dawn