The Seat Of Truth Poem by Suzette Richards

The moth mistakes my bare skin for moonlight—recurring, insistent. Its wings dust the wrist like a forgotten promise, reminding me of a question I never dared ask aloud. I had held his wrist, not his hand. A ghost of a moment playing on loop in my hypnagogic state.

moonlight
trembles
on my wrist
where silence nestles
and my pulse   
flutters
until wings
forget what flight meant
without ache  
and consequences …