Moth-Wing Hours

I flicker,

moth-winged in dusk’s throat.

Time frays—

threads of then snap,

clocks bleed rust.

Clara, spinning in moonlight,

kitchen laughter soft as ash.

Her name hums,

lavender-soaked,

slipping through my fingers.

The street curls,

a sigh under pulsing stones.

Stay, they whisper,

but stay splinters.

I chase her shadow—

mist-woven,

gone.

Dream? Or memory

in star-stolen clothes?

The sky cracks—

gold veins, ash veins.

A blind bird sings

my mother’s voice,

porch swing creaking.

“Close your eyes,

fireflies glow.”

I’m seven, chasing light.

I’m older, folding

a letter never sent.

The horizon tilts—

I fall through mirrors,

radio static,

empty houses.

Snap.

Reality grazes me—

cold coffee mug,

pen’s quiet bleed.

Headlights slice the dark,

a knife through silk.

Clara’s shadow lingers

in the window’s blur,

unfinished.

My heart,

a house of broken doors.

One holds fireflies,

another, ache.

Lines scatter,

reform.

Mood sways—

soft,

sharp,

soft.

Waves kiss a shore

they’ll never own.

Vocal dreamers,

what shapes live

in your broken lines?

What songs hum

in your moth-wing hours?

Trace your heart’s seams,

share them here,

where dream and reality

brush,

then fade,

before clocks tick again.