The Dragonfly

The dragonfly on the bedroom ceiling
prefers the moist damp corner of the room
where the paint is splitting
and the mould
has stained
the corner
black.

Its 2am and Im lying, sleepless
in the bed I share
with my man,
watching the
insect
in the lamplight.

It rests there for a time
before trying desperately
to force itself through
the plaster,
bouncing off
the ceiling
again and again

and I wonder how those wings dont just crack and break.

And it occurs to me that this
beautiful and fragile insect
and I are not much
different from
one another.

Both flying aimlessly around a grand space,
segregated from what we feel is natural,
trapped but with too much space,
yearning for a window
or a safe place to land.
Getting tired.
Feeling alone.

And he sleeps.
No matter how I flutter,
how I curse,
how I struggle,
how I request or ask or guide.
He sleeps, deep in his dreamy oblivion.

Now, if he were awake,
he would mistakenly
swat me Im sure.
Im just a bug,
and he needs his sleep.

I wonder if he can see them,
My wings I mean.
I wonder if he knows that
the light
caught at the right angle
makes them shimmer
with all the colours
of creation.

I wonder if he
can hear the hum,
of me.