Howl

It's irregular, this air. 55 degrees on an early July night...or morning. Ever anxious am I to find the reasoning for this drop in temperature. Broiling heat rids us of our senses. We sleep naked open tight fleshed glistening with fevered summer dreams. I lay here now smelling like spring, wishing you'll come to me like dew in the morning. Your face rises over me and makes everything grow brighter. Hello to your pretty mouth, hello to your body stretched oak high and just as strong. I lay here in the night and run your fingers through my hair, baking in the moonlight while Juno orbits Jupiter. Can't I just ask? Couldn't I just know what it felt like to be unraveled by you? Grace of your fingers and stars in your eyes. A Lone Wolf can still love, if only from afar.