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.

Wednesday


It seemed there was always a third person with them.

His presence like a specter just over her shoulder,
in the corner of her eye.

She could ignore it no longer.

She knew she had to see him.

Monday


Why had he come?
It would never be the same without her.
Her ghost shadows him at every turn.

His mind never resting,
grasping,
wondering,
where is she now?

It doesn't matter, after all, does it?
She is with him.

Saturday


The bleakness of the empty, silent mornings.

Friday


He was always there these days,
in her dreams,
hidden behind her eyes. 
Waiting quietly for the still moments,
the unsuspecting moments when suddenly 
he was all she could see or smell or hear.
The memory of him was slowly consuming her.

She had left him.
But he had not left her.

Tuesday


The slow drip of the tap, 
the quiet tick of the clock,
each little sound reminding her 
of her aloneness.
Of what she has lost.

What she gave up.


On his wanderings he could not help his mind dissecting everything they had been.
He should have known.
There were times he wondered who she dressed for?
She would take such care to make herself beautiful, 
yet she never cared what he thought.

Sunday


After everything, 
to come home and find his trusty, cheerful little friend
frozen on the windowsill,
it seemed a blow too cruel.
And a grief clutches him as he takes it tenderly in his hand,
and knowing it is too late, 
he brings into the warmth of his house,
his anguished heart burning in his chest.