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The Seat of Truth
The moth mistakes my bare skin for moonlight—recurring, insistent. Its wings dust the wrist like a forgotten promise, reminding me of a question I never dared ask aloud. I had held his wrist, not his hand. A ghost of a moment playing on loop in my hypnagogic state.
moonlight
TrEmBlEs
on my wrist
where s i l e n c e nestles
and my pulse
p/u/l/s/e/s
until wings
forget what F L I G H T meant
without aCHe
and consequences …
Copyright ©
Suzette Richards
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