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.

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.