The Dreamer's Pen

She was drawn not to light,

but to the memory of warmth,

how dusk held its breath

when his presence hovered like dusk’s first wind.

The night was a velvet hush,

stitched with stars like half told promises,

and she, fragile winged and flame hearted,

beat against the silence

for a touch that was never still,

but always near.

He was the hum of a porch light

left on too long,

flickering with histories

he never meant to reveal.

The kind of glow that doesn’t burn,

but beckons.

That kind of glow that says:

“Come closer. Disappear in me.”

And she did.

Night after night.

Threading the dark

with her pale, aching arcs,

a dance of desire and danger.

She never asked to be consumed,

only to belong to the warmth

without melting into it.

But summer teaches no such mercy.

It gives,

and gives,

and ends.

So when dawn stretches her long limbs across the sky,

the moth folds herself

into the seam between shadow and story.

Her love still hums

in the soft electric memory of night,

where longing wears wings

and dares the flame anyway.