Women in White

Summer Love. Infatuation.

I'm sitting still
not trying to catch butterflies,
My shoulder's for the moth
flying around at night
by the light,
ghost white wings and dusty - flying and floating in circles,
they're amplified amongst the insects
swarming,
I spot her flirting
with the candle fire
that just one burn
will ash of her body �" I know,
she lands on walls and crawls
the steepest of angles
near the tides of brightness
on the bay,
she wades in ambiguous patterns
creating dynamic shadows
of mistaken misdirection - fluttering up and down
throughout the present towards me,
She'll land with all intentions
of devouring the clothes on my back
and I'll let her,
The summer sun is a hot one