The Moth And The Flame

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I remember seeing her every night, but I don’t remember when I fell in love with her. Maybe it was when the people around me and their incessant chatter suddenly appeared utterly monotonous to me and I had nothing else to do but to look at her. Maybe it was when I started noticing patterns in the changes in her attire. I have tried convincing my friends about the pattern that I have found, but they are only interested in knowing about the day when she lets her robe fall and unleashes the complete power of her beauty on her beholders.


That is the reason why I prefer to keep my knowledge of the patterns to myself. It seems like there is a secret game of hide and seek going on between her black robe and her white skin. It seems to me that the pattern is her secret and only I am privy to it. There is a single piece of clothing which hides her skin, and she toys with it every night. There are nights when she covers herself from head to toe in black and every night after that, she lets her robe fall a little.


It exposes her white skin, a stark contrast to the black piece of clothing. It exposes the grey scars on her skin, inflicted on her by stories locked inside her and sung out loud by people who wrote songs in praise of her beauty. Nothing seems to affect her. Nothing happens to stop her from gradually exposing herself to the eyes of the people around her. After letting her robe fall off a little bit every night, there comes a night when there is not a single trace of black on her skin.


She walks amidst all the people without any piece of clothing on her skin and lets them drink in the sweet sight of her beauty along with the bitter sight of her scar covered body. She is a bitter-sweet cocktail who neither tries to hide her scars nor shies away from embracing them. Her scars not only make whispers travel among the people but also make people write songs about them. She has an air of nonchalance and a mysterious aura around her, and maybe that is what draws me to her.


I don’t think I can ever get enough of her. Her skin, whether completely hidden or completely bared to the world, makes no difference to me. I am drawn to her for her ability to flaunt her scars. It seems like she wants people to accept her with her scars, and I love her for that. I am Venus, the star who is the first to appear in the sky after sunset and the last to leave the sky in the morning. She is the moon, and I am her ardent admirer. I linger on the sky from dusk to dawn just to watch her gradually unfurl the folds of her mysterious self every night. I am the moth and she is the flame, and I let her draw me more and more towards her with every passing night.


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