:: Vernacular ::

I waited for the rain last night but it never came. The sky was as dry as sand despite the groan of distant thunder; the night baked slowly under the indigo desert. A large, listless moth trailed its brown-winged existence around my living room, fluttering with quiet effort to find a resting place on the unnatural green of our walls.

I watched the moth for a while. It was such an ugly thing really―nothing but a splotch of insectile life, flapping from light to light to death. It lingered on my kitchen light; I imagined its wings sucking up the filament atoms with unthinking, animalistic energy.

No one is looking; they are all butterflies, and I am a moth drawn to pale fire.

The night air cackled, with humidity, but also with the tendrils of memories. It was both unfair and unfortunate for me to wonder if he―so dislocated now, so far away―was also thinking of the one night that had prompted that useless sentiment.

I was wry with bitter amusement suddenly. And why do you care?