Like a Moth.

"Like a moth to a flame
Burned by the fire
My love is blind
Can't you see my desire?" - That's the way Love goes. (Janet Jackson)

What the head knows, the heart not necessarily follows. What happens when an existence once thought absolute wavers? Like the rustling leaves on swaying branches, caressed by the bracing wind or a shower of auburn leaves over an autumn lake, the mirrored reflection of azure and crimson vanishing in a sea of ripples; the heart stirs and traipses to a different tune.

It takes two to tango. Tapping heels echoing through the darkened ballroom, he stops in a corner and turning, surveys the grey gloom in silence. Remembering the last dance, the colour, the gaiety, the passion. The thought of a new dance sends a heady rush of adrenaline, and in quiet anticipation he waits, for his partner and the dance.

What the head elucidates, the heart obfuscates. Love is blind. And like a moth to the flame I am drawn. Burnt by my desire.