me or the moth

There is something in the night
here,
It is chillingly beautiful,
and makes your bones
ache
for some old memories
to be stored in such
a place.
The moon is fresh
her aura is
the simplest blue
The world turns
slowly
monochromatic around her,
Fluorescent lights are
scarce and
compete with
her shine.
They are envious
pink and green.
As the moths make their
usual trail towards
her, they fly into the
car windows, blindly mistaking
the glass for cool
soft air
or the weave
of a corn top head.
Hurt by the truth.
Faintly
I wonder
who is outside
the glass,
me
or the
moth.