What if the glass was my friend and protector? Cool on my thorax and abdomen, opposing my flutter and your fire? What if I misunderstood, thought it despised me and my kind?
What if I could smell a female from 7 miles away – who can’t, they stink. What if I’d heard tiger moths make clicking noises to block bat sonar and often wished I could do the same re. ladymoth aroma? But what if the dusty smell of a hot lightbulb turned me on? If filaments havocked my antennae?
What if the moon and stars were old stories? If I was getting old myself, if young moths lusted after computer screens?
What if one night no barrier, so I flew in? What if my light romance changed to cruel Renaissance tragedy? What if I didn’t know, or did know but couldn’t resist? What if beauty means death?
Frances Gapper lives in the UK’s Black Country and writes very short things. Recent work published in Twin Pies, Truffle Lit, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Sledgehammer Lit, Versification, Stone of Madness. @biddablesheep