the moth mistakes the porch light for the moon
the moth mistakes the porch light for the moon.
it is an easy mistake to make.
someone has left the kitchen window open,
a steel spoon drying beside the sink,
two plates abandoned on the table
because dinner was late again.
outside,
the porch light hums above an empty chair.
the moth arrives at 11:47.
it has been flying all evening
without finding what it was looking for.
then there it is.
a small yellow moon
hanging just above the garden.
the moth circles it once,
as though introducing itself.
twice,
as though the moon might recognise it.
by the third time
it has forgotten where it was going.
this is how ridiculous longing makes us.
we see something glowing
and decide it must have been waiting for us.
the moth does not know
about switches,
or electricity,
or the hand that will reach out
before bed and turn the whole thing dark.
it knows only
that there is a light
and that it is beautiful.
so it keeps returning.
perhaps you have done this too.
stood outside a restaurant after closing,
watching someone through the glass
stack the chairs upside down.
waited for a message
you knew was not coming.
mistaken a warm window
for an invitation.
mistaken being noticed
for being wanted.
the moth does not know any better.
neither did i.
by midnight,
the house is asleep.
the garden is silver.
the real moon has moved
to the other side of the roof.
still,
the moth circles the porch light.
and if you asked it why,
it would probably tell you
the same thing
we all tell ourselves
when we have loved
the wrong kind of brightness
for too long:
it was warm here once.
i thought
that meant
i belonged.
the moth keeps coming back
the moth keeps coming back.
by now,
it knows the porch light is not the moon.
this should have solved the problem.
it hasn't.
every night at eleven,
it appears above the flowerpot
with the same dusty wings,
the same ridiculous faith.
the woman inside has noticed.
she sits at the kitchen table
cutting mangoes into a steel bowl
and watches it through the window.
sometimes she turns the light off.
the moth waits.
sometimes she turns it back on.
the moth begins again.
circle.
circle.
circle.
there are things we call habits
because the other word is too embarrassing.
the moth has one.
it has memorised the distance
between itself and the glass.
it knows exactly where to stop.
it knows exactly where it will hurt.
still,
every evening,
it comes closer.
once,
the woman opens the door.
the moth flies away so quickly
she laughs.
then she leaves the porch light on
for the rest of the night.
this is not kindness,
though the moth does not know that.
it circles until morning.
and perhaps this is the cruelest thing
about being given what you wanted:
sometimes you realise
you were only in love
with the waiting.
by dawn,
the porch is empty.
the mangoes are gone.
the woman is asleep.
the moth is somewhere in the garden,
resting beneath a leaf,
already waiting for night.
it knows the light is not the moon.
it comes back anyway.
the moth learns the garden blooms at night
for a long time,
the moth believed the porch light
was the brightest thing in the world.
this was not true.
one evening,
it rains.
the light goes out.
the moth waits beneath the eaves,
wings folded,
looking for somewhere to put
all that wanting.
then the wind changes.
something sweet
moves through the garden.
jasmine.
the moth follows it.
not because it is bright.
because it is there.
beneath the hedge,
flowers have opened
that were closed all day.
small white mouths
full of moonlight.
the moth lands on one.
nothing happens.
no door opens.
no window lights up.
nothing reaches for it.
still,
the flower holds.
for the first time,
the moth does not circle.
it simply stays.
above the garden,
the real moon has risen.
it is enormous.
it is beautiful.
it has never once
asked the moth to come closer.
the moth does not mind.
by morning,
the porch light is back on.
the empty chair is still there.
the glass of water is still beside it.
but the moth is gone.
somewhere beyond the garden,
something is blooming in the dark.
and perhaps this is what the moth
was trying to learn all along:
not everything beautiful
has to be bright enough
to lead you home.
