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Shivani Mehta
One Year I Loved Alone
I only had the moths for company, shared the flat with them. How they clung to every surface like brown velvet petals. How the night grew dark with their fluttering. Light filtered in as if through a thick curtain. I grew accustomed to the gloom. On cold nights we huddled in front of the fireplace, I under a coarse blanket, moths forming a dark border around it like sentinels. Sometimes I read aloud—to myself or them, I’m still not sure—the sound of my voice soothed their trembling. When I undressed for bed, their wings cast shadows on my skin. They swirled around the room as I slept, alighting on my thigh, an upturned palm, my closed eyes, like a kiss.