moth to a flame

A luminescent aura pulsates on through the lazy days, and the calling nights
of clashing tongues and mocking vagueness.
The room, an impractical haven with ghost colored walls and buzzing sounds
from the whirling fan are nearly deafening.
This is a special place however. Here is where he explodes me
into glittery matter. Here I lay my existence on the line
for the beard, the hands, the naked chest, and the easy limbs.
I am a moth to his flame.
He flashes, then there’s smoke and then I die.
I’m left there on this bed and in this room with no form,
no structure. Just a pheromone, of stinking woman in love.