Of Moonlight, Moth, and Flame

I caught a glimpse of the almost-full moon tonight.
She did not call with sound,
only with silver—
a curve of light, sharp as memory.

She looked back so deeply
it held me there,
my gaze lingering in her glow
as the skies dimmed into shades of midnight.

I turned away—
just a moment—
and when I looked again,
she was gone.

Not hidden,
but withheld.

I stepped forward, into the center of it all,
searching the sky.
The clouds had gathered,
closed the curtain on her stage.
I—I wasn’t done
with the slow burn of devotion,
my gaze fixed in a longing
only she could ignite.

The fire behind me rose—
a hush that crackled.
Sparks leapt skyward
like offerings flung from earth to ether.

I sat with it,
let it speak.
Fire always does.

Then, the moth came—
a winged hush,
a pulse of dusk
that landed soft against my skin.

I waited for a message,
a passing whisper from the moon.
But he just stayed,
still,
a silent flutter of being.

I lifted him gently,
placed him on a leaf nearby.
And when I turned
to reach for my brush—
he was gone too.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai