Moth Heart

 

Against a pane, the movement changes. Hurt

At first,

The fluttering to escape was a rush,

Hearts touch.

 

Once, his was a moth against the glass.

Couldn’t pass.

It fought wordless for it, fled itself for flight,

Then one slight

 

Shift, a glass and a birthday card

Cupped in hand,

Trembling thing: feather-fragile in its hurt

To be let out.

 

 

A trembling heart, unable to get out. A delicate, silent thing. 

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