Captain Pinafore

during spring, the bogoun moth migrates down to cool and dry victoria from sticky, sweating queensland.
the news reader tells us that a westerly has blown them off course, hence this infestation of moths.
they flap around senselessly, and normally (despite a morbid fear of fluttery things) i would be watching them repeatedly throw themselves against the light, smile and be smug in my human-ness. but i am distracted. by the pretty girl on the corner of my bed.

she is scissor, paper, rock my fucking world.

she speaks in contralto and giggles like a school girl and it strips my defences bare. exposing my dry and ink-stained skin to the universe that my four walls have become. the smoke from the cigarette we share drifts up to the cieling and takes my worries away with it.

we live like queens on cheap thai, eight dollar cigarettes and special k; and it’s really all we need to fuel our libidos.
we drive like maniacs in a car with failing brakes, but the highways are always empty enough to never slow down and never have to pick a lane.
we dance like fools and laugh like hyenas.
we love like poets. like her lips were meant for mine and no matter when and where, her hand always finds mine. it’s skin pressed against soul and i swear my heart is trying to break through my ribcage.

she talks of a life that we don’t yet lead with such conviction and sincerity that sometimes, when i close my eyes and the scent of her perfume still lingers, i feel it. and it feels more real than anything.

a moth flutters against the window and she squeals, diving under the covers for safety. she curls herself tightly in the corner, against the vertex of the walls. and i adore how in moments like these, i see a side of her that no-one else is ever privy to.

and like a moth, i may seem directionless. i have been blown off course. but dont let my blindness and unkempt exterior fool you. there is a great light i gravitate towards and she is fluttering right beside me.