limbic moth

limbic moth



she’d be standing there

  in the window of the road

a cinematic still

her auburn hair, nearly

  camouflaged by the

   sun-baked background,

lapping at the wind

a tongue of airfilled fire

attracting my limbic moth

I could call her name

 if only I could recall

 which iteration she is

and if the wind kicked up

it would drag a

 lascivious, yet heartfull note

across the curvature

   of her breast

and the horizoned tree

 shortened in her beauty

would sway or swoon,

  I can’t decide

   or decipher.

and when I knew I’d

  never get closer to her

a part of me resigned

  to never seeing

     the light of it


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