The Moth and the Candle

Following the last as the one before
Travelling in a well-worn direction
Movement without thinking
The practised motions of the weary
Clear and unnoticed in the harsh light
The vastly differing faces of each person
Blend into the distinguishable of the moment
Without being the discernible of the long term
Each has a million stories which will not be told
And the time that one takes to ponder on one
Allows only the briefest of inferences to be made
I only focus on the beautiful women
As I am a shallow, callow young male
My journey is never ending and non-stop
By my own leave and my own volition
I engage in eye contact with every attractive female
What they think is anyone’s guess
Some are seemingly not displeased
Others demonstrably uninterested
But none initiate the contact
They are the respondents
To my…what? Desperation? Interest?
Perhaps they look too but only occasionally, subtly
Without the burning desire of the male
They still want and need
Perhaps theirs is a smoother journey
Enkompassing a greater trajectory
Whilst we fumble about in the gutters of life
Scrabbling around from one point to the next
They will sit at the end of the lines
And laugh