You were the Flame, I was the Moth

Every night, the same dream. You and I walking through the forest. The moon glows upon us, making your smile a radiant beam. Your eyes glisten like crystallized oceans. Your hand in mine. My hand in yours.

Every night, we walk deeper into the woods. The darkness envelops us, like a blanket over our heads. The breeze, warm on our faces. Still, your hand in mine. My hand in yours.

Every night, a faint glow shimmers in the distance. It grows quickly. Its orange hue sparks fear in your eyes. Fire. We run. Your hand in mine, my hand in yours.

Every night, it eats away at the trees with loud cracks. The smoke fills my lungs, burning my throat with every panicked breath. The flames lick at our feet. Your hand in mine. My hand in yours.

Every night, the fire melts away the skin from my bones, but I do not let go of your hand. I will not let go. I cannot let go.

Then. I awake. Every morning, I awake to find that I had let go. Your hand no longer in mine. My hand no longer in yours. Empty. My hand is now empty. My life is now empty.

Every morning, I rise. Like a zombie from a grave, I rise. Empty.

Every morning, I look out the window. Down the street, you lie there. Under six feet of dirt, you lie there; yet, every morning, I dare to hope that you will walk back to me. Though, the streets are always empty. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Every morning, I wish I could return to bed—return to the dream, even though it always burns. I am a moth, searching for your flame, your light, but only finding the fire.