Fireflies In The Dark

Have you seen fireflies ignite themselves,

each one a pulse,

a fleeting constellation humming just beyond your reach?

Your jaws draw wide.

You tell yourself it’s magic,

surrealism meant only for your eyes.

You cup your hands.

Whisper promises.

The light flickers,

trembles,

and dies.

With it dies the next miracle,

and a little of yourself along with it,

as though it borrowed your bones to vanish.

Freedom is this firefly's glow:

it tempts, it teases,

then vanishes as you lean in.

No coin, no hand, no vow can ever own it.

You keep staring.

You throw diamonds.

The fireflies do not answer.

And still, you keep staring.

Until you feel your own pulse echo in the dark,

and the shadows behind your eyes flicker like dying stars.

You wonder which is real:

the moments of light,

or the eternity of emptiness it leaves behind,

that throbs arhythmically in your veins,

a quiet, persistent accusation

you can neither catch nor escape,

wondering if it was about fireflies, or freedom, or neither — all along.

And when you finally look away,

the darkness blinds you

with the fireflies’ dead lights and decayed heartbeats,

and you know you will never stop searching.