Moth and Flame
There is something that is almost love
The artist's call to capture an existence, symmetrical and pure.
It is magnetic and yearning
prying open my chest cavity and rearranging the vital organs to make a home for itself.
I almost love him.
I do not; it is but a trick of the light falling across his cheekbones
A muse that sculptors would've envied
Yet my heart quickens, seduced by the imperative to interpret such beauty
I am not a moth to a flame
I am a muralist to a whitewashed wall
A composer in a quiet room
A sonnetist to a blank page
but then the moment fractures, its fragile potentials
puddling back into reality once more.
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