fireflies

like fireflies drifting across a backdrop of night. warm summer breeze, moonlight reflecting upon cool still water, latenight lovers hidden from the world. constellations pale in comparison to the akward elegance of the tiny orbs cutting through the silence, aimless in their destination. we lie on our backs in dew-dampened grass with our eyes turned upward, darting between the Hunter's poignant perch and the clumsy route taken by the fireflies. no heirarchy among them, no blurred lines of indifference, no one shining brighter than the other. no competition, no rivalry. simply drifting. you think they ever wonder where they are headed, or why they spend every single night in their poetic soliloquy of tragic grace? whether it be a beacon of comfort or a guide home, that luminescent glow is forever present, a morphic flaw. but all lights eventually go out, and the firefly loses its fire. loses its fire, but never its glow, for some things can never be taken away. some things never lose their value, even if you are a firefly with no fire left.