Like the Moth to the Flame, So the Flame to the Moth

There have been times
he would sit in wide wonder
at her passion, and almost envy
how it fueled her life
in gentle warmth and blinding flame.
She occasionally pondered
the sensitive spirit
behind his gritty facade.
She’d see it draw people
to his side, if only for a moment,
and then they’d walk away, maybe
wearing some thoughtful look.
He would approach her warmth, drawn
like a doomed moth to the gentle flicker.
Her fire would always flare
and chase him away, singed and sorry.
She once dreamed of how
it’d be to share with him his gift
of personal touch without touching.
That’s when she learned,
though, he do to her what
he always did when someone
got too close — push them away
and then brood in his unworthiness.
For a shining instant, once,
they thought they’d be perfect together,
but each realized they were
more perfect apart.

Rolled out of bed and found this soon staring at me from the virtual page. Your guess is as good as mine, dear reader.

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