Moth.

My lover's life is that of a moth.

It runs and flies all around, tirelessly.

Its wings flutter and their sound echo my life.

Its failure pleases, as it drowns in me.

Laboring night and day, just to once feel me.

Consummation, is its destiny he knows, and yet

My lover struggles for more. He makes promises

Bets and swears on his life, tells me stories and fantasies.

Weaves dreams and of places to go, sings songs

And promises of memories he owes. A lot of love and

Not much to speak. He whispers several sonnets in my sleep.

And keeps me waiting for many nights.

Hopeless helpless, few may pass, I wait for him.

No appearance, and then comes another. I try not

But grow fond of him too. What happened to the love gospels?

Ah! He promises, but thou himself does not last forever,

For my lover's life is that of a moth.