Moth

Is it real

To feel 
That my life
Is spent on circles
And Escher patterns?
If love is a parasite,
what will it be?
Is it the fungi
On my body,
Milk-white thriving
In the darkest corners
Where the seat of love is.
Or is it like a moth
Whose susurrus sounds 

So sad and so fragile,
Loving the flame 

With no shame?

I want to thrive 

In the memory
Of your kiss.
I want to dream of you
But must I be contented
With dark light and no air?