Positively Phototactic Organisms Interrupt Stream of Consciousness

I'm watching moths press themselvesto the streetlamp, flattening theirtiny soft bodies to wafers, wings tightto glass. We're sitting on a benchwith a memorial plaque that readsTo a loved mother, sister,and wife with no name. This benchis for all of the dead mothers, sisters,wives that have ever existed, willexist. I'm wondering if I'll beone of them. I'm forgettingyour palm into my thigh untilI can't feel it there. Themoths beat themselves bruised(I make a note to researchif insects can bruise, I remaindoubtful) over and over, thethump of their small formsjust loud enough to drownthe buzz of conversation. You'relighting a cigarette. You'reletting ashes burn into the thighthat's forgotten your hand. You'retalking about your sister. Thisbench will be hers someday.