The Tiger and it's Lover

Beetle

Beetles are shiny.

You like beetles, not as much as your lover, but you like them.

They never said anything about who you fell in love with.

They just 'oooh' and 'aaaah' at you.

Your lover has many beetle friends.

You are swarmed with beetles some days, always asking where the Wasp is.

You always reply with, 'I'm not sure.'

You lie.

You know exactly where your lover is.

You always do.

They buzz disappointedly and fly away, sparks of bright greens and blues.

Your lover hums happily in your hand, laughing.

'I thought you wouldn't do it!' It squeals, 'You lied! Just for me!'

You huff, 'I would do anything for you.' You say, strutting through the foliage.

You lover is oddly silent, always brimming with a remark.

Not today.

You worry, 'My dear, are you alright?' You ask, turning back to find your lover lying upon a rock.

'Yes, my darling. I don't know why, but I've been so tired lately, always out of breath.' It says, sounding weak.

It's wings, always so shiny, like a beetles vibrant shell, are no longer glassy.

They are withering.

The Wasp's body is shriveled, sad and grey.

'My dear,' You breathe, 'What's happening to you?'

Your lover tilts their head up, 'I don't know.' It whispers.

It's scared.

Just like you.