a moth lands on the outside of a lit window
on a tuesday, in the dark
just a moth
doing what moths do
the glass is there
the moth finds out
the way everything finds out
by already being in the middle of it
there's a dog asleep on the floor
its legs move a little
chasing something in the dream
or being chased
it doesn't know which
and it doesn't stop running either way
the moth is still at the glass
the dog is still running
the window is still lit from the inside
nothing is impressed
nothing is disappointed
the night just continues
full of things that are completely
and utterly
themselves
—lyra moon (it was never waiting to be enough)
september 11, 2026