As well as being a place to indulge my love of Hipstamatic and iPhone photos, this is a blog of images and words. Of little vignettes and quiet corners from a place in my head, a place I call The Moth House. Of significant, and also small, happenings there, the wanderings and musings and sad reveries of it's occupants, The Parted Lovers.

Thursday

On the heels of the bitter winter that came and settled itself,
burrowing deep into the surrounding forest,
came a certainty, 
like a creeping ice that slowly spread through his chest,
that held him in a tightening vice, 
and that he longed so badly to ignore.

She would not be coming home.

Friday

He could hear seagulls in the distance.
"Where are you? Are you with him?"
The silence said it all. 
Like a stone in his gullet.
And he hated himself for asking.

She cannot think about it,
his face when he came upon them together.
The brutal anguish like a keen blade under her skin.

Saturday



He took what solace he could find,
spending long desolate hours walking the fields,
sitting in the church,
letting the music there transport his very soul 
to such magnificent heights, where all sorrow fled 
his heart and mind.
But each time, upon opening his eyes
his ruined heart was cleaved in two again at his remembering.

Friday



Increasingly he felt adrift.
In fact, at times positively lost.
Even work no longer held his fascination,
consumed as he was by dark thoughts of where she may have gone.

Wednesday

Some days, if she thought about his beloved face
 she almost could not remember
why she had even left,
and regret clutched at her heart
until she could no longer breathe.


Tuesday

That day that he had come home early,
Oh! He could not stand to think of it!

His eyes grew hot at the memory.

Sunday


In the morning the thunder is still there,
rolling around the distant sky.
A dull, clammy day of downpours, 
the lake a soft sheen of grey like a heron's back.

Thursday


"Are you coming home?
You're not coming home, are you? 
I just need to know."


Monday


That day on the beach it seemed the sea knew her heart.
All day she walked, pacing in seething rage at her own weakness.


Saturday


All of a sudden she had a longing to see him.
She knew then that she would go home in the end.


Thursday


The garden breathes the faint memory of long-ago children.
It is filled with such ghosts and echoes of other lives.
A lingering sensation of hidden joy.



Monday


Sometimes she felt there was no going back.


Saturday

What did he miss the most?
It was the murmur of her voice in another room,
the quiet hum in the kitchen,
the clink of another knife on a plate at the table.

And in the evening, 
her footstep on the boards outside their bedroom door.




Friday

A sunny corner of scented flowers, creeping green.
Each day, when he returned,
late blooming roses filled the evening air with perfume
which greets him like a friendly, melancholy ghost.





Monday


From his chair he could see, framed by the trees,
a piece of the sea.
It seemed to float, stars of light
suspended on dancing threads,
as though played by some unseen hand.

Sunday


This woman can read her like a book- how can she not know?

But for once she does not want to tell her. She wants to hold her secret close.