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.

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.