and when i’m left unsaid and undone we’ll piece our rice-paper wings together again. leave fingernails in my journals for the next fool who forgets its body resting pages. you and i moth flying to flames for any light to guide us move a million larvae a crescent-cut i can see so much in our underbelly moonlight. our forgetful phototaxis and its beguiling demise. the moon is ready to pop pregnant gnat-morning, and what does that mean for us? my little forever fever dream, i wish i could say a crater’s worth but i’ll keep us stardusting safely and seperate. and before we fly to the polar lights, i’ll ask, can you love what was never yours? can i still swell with my imaginative kin? can i carry you? across an ocean? tell you i love you? swim a school of fish with you? reposition the sun to the day we meet? my little, never forget your moth mothers. my never, forget what we’ve spoken of future and of flight. my, look at all we’ve said with so much grabbing at our throats. and isn’t there still love, here?
c.p.h (any/all) is a genderqueer poet from Sunrise, Florida, and resides in Hoboken, NJ. A recent graduate of Illinois State University, c has been featured in Muse/A, The Oakland Review, Gyroscope Review, DreamPOP, and work forthcoming in Beyond Words.