Moth
Don’t
tempt
me
to
be
The
moth
by
your
lantern;
I
charred
fingers,
playing
with
fire,
Caressing
flames.
Your
soft
glow
spreads
on
my
skin
Seeps
through
the
spaces.
Like
a
half-‐baked
solstice
In
June.
Countless
nights,
I
mistook
Stars
for
fireflies;
Radiating
in
your
orange
mist.
And
at
wee
hours,
sickly
sweet,
You
woke
me
To
your
cold
fingers,
Surprisingly
warm
at
the
tips.
I
modeled
my
reason
To
function
in
cramped
spaces,
So
I
won’t
be
the
moth
By
your
faint
lantern.
I
will
hover
to
the
sunlight
That
squeezes
through
torn
curtains.
By
Gargi
Samanta
12