recording available: lunar-moth
within the pane, thrumming, the delicate tappings against glass, i could hear them, faintly, from my pillows. from slumber, i woke and was restless, the light flutterings of despair upon the sill called me from the dreamlands and i replied, albeit reluctantly.
the lunar moth is a thing of great and odd beauty. delicate green wings like leaves, veined with white and dusted silver by moonlight, antennae of deepest purple, fern-like and trembling for knowledge by which to navigate the twilight. it flitted and fluttered at the window, called by the soft beam of the nightlight. i thought of the irony that would have the poor thing fluttering at the panes as clouds scuttled over its true goal.
bemused and feeling allegory rise, i settled there, by the windowsill, and put my face close to the window. my breath limning the glass from within and creating a tender fog that softened the shape of frustrated desire as the poor thing flipped and fluttered.
i do not know what a moth’s panting might sound like, but empathy had me sighing in time with its insistence. i know the feeling of being outside looking in, seeing warmth and sensing light and being frustrated by the invisible barrier. i know the feeling of relentless effort; skittering and restless and needful and unfulfilled.
the ache of it is like autumn gone winter; the last fading warmth giving way to the first creeping chill. i throbbed with it, a willing palsy for an unknown and impossible reprieve. i listened quietly to the fervent tappings, a code i could not translate but intimately knew, and my mind flew great, widening circles as i fluttered and tapped along the edges of my own impossible dreams.
turning slowly away, the soft trembling upon the sill echoing along corridors of thought, i moved to the light and reached out to flick it off. in the dark, i waited, silent and still, as the fluttering at the window slowed and stopped. a few minutes more and i carefully pressed my face there, rested my cheek against the cool glass and stared into the empty space where only moments before, infinite hope had nestled and fussed.
i wept, but quietly. i wept for cloud filled nights and ambient lights and wings upon the windowsill that have passed away. sotto vox, a whisper, “you have locked it away, haven’t you?” the condensation upon the pane faded as did the words. a light hum that i dreamt might be precursor to denial, but it was my imagining, nothing more.
i stayed there for a time, staring into the black nothing. i imagined the lunar moth rising toward a more generous moon and wished myself wings. but humans are not able to fly, not by moonlight nor by sun. every lofty thought and dream eventually returns to earth, a grounded, dust-moving thing.
i returned to my bed, nestled into coverlet and pillow in the dark, and let my eyes roam blind and seeking for light… any light whatever. from great distance, the moon peeked from behind the clouds and for reasons i will not speak, set me sobbing in truth. such a distant and beautiful light…. oh, i wish i were a moth.