crushed

moths

like tiny bi-planes

scuttle across terracotta tiled runways

taxiing to launch positions

they are

delicate like the fabric they eat

the holes in the clothing we wear

the white lies we tell each other in the black hours

those gentle conceits that caress the ego

guilty jabs of conscience and selfishness

these

these creatures roused from their drowsiness

by our human ability to control illumination

are awoken from the pitch

feverous horror of our insomniac nights

and they

they try, in futility, to take flight before we swat them

the casual violence of argument we share with each other

we share in physical vehemence towards them

on the one hand

leading to the death

of our relationship

subtle moth eaten hole

by moth-eaten hole

on the other

the destruction of tiny bi-planes

crushed

on the terracotta runways

of a bathroom floor