Unnamed Moth Poem

In my head poetry does not flow but instead perches on walls with drab wings

And I walk past them on my daily paths, trailing my fingers across the surface of memories

Disturbed they flutter this way and that, as if this is their house and I am just visiting

There is more of them as of late, real moths that are not thoughts, real ones biting holes into my clothes and falling out of our flour bags and resting on towels

There were less of them five years ago, when there was more movement and noise in this house, when we were holding on because we didn’t want to let go, when there wasn’t a bedroom that we never went in.

When I leave this place

it will be a cocoon unfurling

far too late for my liking

but better late than never.