I settle into my routine, following that blasted little green owl,
still addicted to flame streak he ignites.
It was a small spark, almost forgotten if not for the angle of my phone.
Blink and I pause.
Blink and the phone goes dark.
Am I so tired I am hallucinating?
But no, there is a faint hue of warm on the ceiling,
beckoning me from the sheets.
“What are you doing here?”
How did the outdoors escape inside?
Doesn’t it know it won’t find a date behind screens and locked doors?
I struggle to find a tool long enough, but eventually settle on a poster board
to gently reach up and knock the firefly from its perch.
But it fights against me, seeing the paper as an insult.
My hand, a poor cell, easy to slip through intact.
I struggle to keep it in place, hurrying down the stairs.
Wouldn’t it be easier to kill it, be done?
But no, I believe in this creature’s slow blink,
how it contains its own methodical seduction
that somehow also ensnared me.
I tsk as it crawls around my little finger again.
“At least wait for me to open the door.”
It does not listen.
I gently engulf it again, carefully using one finger
to click the lock, flick the light to step out
into the humid summer night.
It hesitates as I walk further onto the porch.
“Now go find your next mate.”
It doesn’t listen, but eventually complies to instinct.
Taking to a faint breeze, it returns to its own nature,
back to where its desires belong,
back to the world whole.
What would I have given
to be a firefly on the wall as well?