The moth eggs in my wardrobe have
vanished now. Not long ago, I found
a moth, mistook it for a butterfly
save for its law of attraction to light.
For months, moths of different shades
danced beneath my washroom lamp.
I sense them like ghosts in the shower,
breaking reverie with water to admire
their soft fluff of wings, steep dive & climb
like lifelines patterned on my wall. That night,
moths traced a new horizon on your cardio
monitor. They might've danced over your face
before doctors drew the curtains over it. They
might've retired to waltz their transient waltz
in the shade of ceiling lamps at the void deck,
where you'd burnt the chess tables with
stubs from your cheap cigarettes.
The moths don't lay eggs in my wardrobe anymore.
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