Moth-Like

Sometimes I place my hands over my face and, after a while, blink rapidly. My eyelashes feel like moth’s wings, smooth and almost powdery. I think of how it feels to hold a moth between my cupped hands, the insect’s wings fluttering against my palms as I run toward an open door to release it. I think of how the creature chooses a smaller world out of curiosity, drawn from the moon to the glow of a table lamp and then, though momentarily, makes itself to suffer the claustration of my cupped hands before it’s exhaled back into nature.

I’m not really sure what all that was about. Somewhere tucked neatly amongst the dramatic phrasing and colourful prose is an insightful metaphor with regard to our personal choices and the reasoning behind them or where curiosity may lead us or how life comes full circle. And maybe it’s none of that. In the meantime, I remove my hands from over my eyes and see my boyfriend standing there and smiling down at me trying to understand what I’m doing.

At the beginning of our relationship, I found myself pitying those poor suckers forced to be in our company. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Every spare moment, every pause between words, was spent kissing. We were unable to walk past each other without allowing our hands to graze the other’s arms or lower back, or bottom. At present, we’re still as excited to touch and kiss each other, but we’ve managed to control our public displays.

And now, as we approach the breadth of our relationship, we lie in bed next to each other and talk about our new place and our excitements and worries. After a few silent moments, he sighs and moves his face a bit closer to mine. He looks at me thoughtfully and asks, “Is this what love feels like?”

We kiss and then I press my face against his and blink, letting him feel the moth’s wings.