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Angels and Moths If a man once loved you, he's turned you into a moth. That's how he'll remember the flutter: that numinous, that beating, that winged. Angels and moths: that's who men love. But I don't recollect like that. I don't think I ever loved that gently. And I've never flown toward a burning house, hoping, maybe my faith lay in that single thing left, in that smoldering filigree. I never reminisce a sorrow that delicately shaped. But sometimes I feel someone remembering me that way: translucent, crazy, awake only at night. He's regretting his fingertips were not wide or soft enough. He's mourning me now. He's imagining me eating away at someone else's light. And that's perfect. That's exactly how he always wanted to love me. My wings, my hair-like antennae hanging; my frenulum between his forefinger and his thumb. ...

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