moonfreak

I used to catch fireflies in mason jars. The nights are still dark now, but lit with a different kind of twinkling star, nothing so close as those cloud blanketed keep the heat in summer nights, holding the sunset's light as the mosquitoes came out to bite-- Me with my glass prison, for the only hope I could see: Lightning bugs. They'll die if you take them inside, their black bodies shriveled up by morning. You can only keep them in the liminal space of a northeast backyard, the sweat trickling down your ribs in the darkness, each blink of them lighting up a different part of you, but never showing the whole picture. They're as far away