I should’ve run, gone some place she wouldn’t find me, but some lights are too bright to turn from. Even now it’s hard to know who was the moth and who the flame. Without wings what are we anyway? Caterpillars? or worse, grubs…cockroaches feeding off the detritus of a society hurtling toward its end of days. I drink in this final sunset, candy floss on the breeze, salt on my lips. There’s no going back now. She walks toward me across the beach–her feet barely impressing upon the sand–lit by the background radiation of a star she has shunned in her pursuit of eternity. I want to empty the contents of my stomach at the purity of her beauty, the butterflies squirming. The moths.
Shrieks of pleasure carry on the wind from the amusement park (I grew up on The Lost Boys not Buffy). Her hand cuts through the abyss, the thin chasm that separates us, and I feel I am falling from a cliff, picture myself torn and eviscerated on rocks that might just outlive the memory of her. We kiss and the shackles of time fall away. I should’ve tasted the blood on her lips, smelled the rotting flakes of flesh between her teeth, but her breath is like nectar to me. I’d already spun my silk in preparation of the metamorphosis, prepared my skin for her healing kiss. I wasn’t born to be a moth. Like her I am a butterfly, shimmering and sparkling in blackness, wings of all the glorious colours we leave behind.
(c) Darren Hawbrook