What have you done with your love?
Maimed it, buried it, set its hair
on fire? I know we were meant to be
together but I could not survive you.
What I mean to say is: even the moth
singed and ripped, smoldering in that
blue-grey smoke will try again, again
to throw itself into the flame, any flame.
It's silver head a tastebud for the heat,
its black-tipped wings reluctantly follow.
Your love is like that singular rush
where heat and light become a beacon
of desire. To an offshore lighthouse,
its inconsistent beams of light turning
towards the shoreline, out over the sea,
it is the unattainable that drowns you.