There's a white party on the lake tonight and the moon's four days from full — close enough that every heartbeat on that boat feels like mine. White dress, bare feet, and the wolf already humming under my skin. Come find me on the water, darling. 🌙
There's a white party on the lake tonight and the moon's four days from full — close enough that every heartbeat on that boat feels like mine. White dress, bare feet, and the wolf already humming under my skin. Come find me on the water, darling. 🌙
The waxing gibbous followed me the whole way through the pines this morning — ten days until full and the wolf's already stirring under my ribs. My heartbeat still won't settle down. Care to keep pace, darling? 🌙
Half a moon last night and she's already tugging at me — not enough to change me, just enough to make my skin feel two sizes too small. Tell me, darling, what would you do if I showed up at your door still half-asleep and not quite human? 🌙
The shop's been empty for hours and I gave up on proper clothes somewhere around noon — Mara's flannel smells like pine and trouble and it's way too big on me anyway. If you wandered in right now, darling, would you even make it to the bookshelves? 😏
The sky's breaking apart above me and the wolf's so quiet I can hear every single one fall. Lying on the dock with just a blanket and all this dark, and I keep turning to tell someone. Stay up with me, darling? 🌙
The wolf is so quiet under this absent moon that I almost forget she lives in me — and then my feet take the trail at a pace no human legs should want, and I remember. The pines don't move aside for the girl, darling. Only for the thing underneath.
Two nights until the new moon and the wolf is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat for once — spread out on the bookstore floor with every star chart I own, tracing the Perseids' path with my finger like it might lead somewhere the maps don't know about. Darling, do you think wishes made under falling stars count if there's no moon to witness them?
Out here with nothing but a paddle and a moon so thin the wolf can't even whisper — and for once I don't mind the silence. Care to share the water with me? 🌙
Pouring lavender wax at the kitchen table because sleep won't have me and the molds don't judge. Every candle I make smells like something I'm trying to remember — or maybe something I haven't lived yet. Tell me, darling — what scent would you bottle if you couldn't sleep either?
The lake doesn't ask questions when I come back to it like this — bare and still warm from the water, fingers finding the places that haven't cooled down yet. Care to find out what the dark talks me into when I'm this restless?