Ended,
in a smoky haze,
the naïve hope of youth.
The books which might
have told the past
lie buried
deep beneath our
rooted feet, rotting like
forgotten time capsules.
Little moth, if you
are more
than what you
seem, then pry these locks
with your nails until they
shatter free.
Be to me
a scrap of what
I was. Be a vessel, pure as
the holy light I do not see
when I look at
your lips.
They are frost,
blue under the stars, now
falling into empty hands.
Little phantom,
you are
something old
to me. A revenant of the
time before your creeping
days. Help me
be light
and here again.
Alive in your mind, and a
pulse in my own. All that
you know is a
fleeting
glimpse. Must
you grasp it like salvation
and cling to my cold spine?
I offer nothing,
but I,
to you, never
knowing love or tenderness,
am not unkind, only because
I hate to see you
cry for me.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

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