Last night I stayed up, waiting on him to come home. I sat out on the porch swing beneath a damp, measurable blackness and listened to the swamp sounds until I could make out voices. After a while, the shrill calls of tree frogs and cicadas made better sense to me.
I recognize this language; it’s primeval, one we all used to speak.
I watched the moon flowers expose their fragrant faces to a fingernail clipping of moon. The white throats of the flowers summon luna moths from the muggy darkness, promising a taste of bliss. If you could see how the luna moths cling drunkenly to the vines, satiated and bloated with the night’s nectar, you might understand how I need him.
I wanted him to walk up those steps and sit beside me. I wanted him to run his rough hand along my cheek, finding it slick to the touch.
Later, when our bodies are done slithering on one another, I would bring him back out to the porch for a late cigarette. I want to show him how a luna moth can dance when I pin the tip of its wing to a board.
The moth becomes a lime gyroscope. It spins violently. No, exquisitely. I want him to watch the moth grow weary. It circles the pin slowly, dragging limp, heavy wings behind it. And, as soon as we grew tired, we would move back to our bed and curl into a dreamless sleep, abandoning our neon beauty to the screaming night.