You laugh, like a summer breeze. Short, quiet bursts of refreshment in an otherwise still air space.

You’ve got the kind of mind I want to climb inside. I want to learn where the dips and cracks of memories become the dreamlike worlds you’ve spoken about.

I’m curious to know if being reckless was something you hoped for, or if you wanted someone to fashion themselves into a safety net beneath you. Neither seems right, at least not yet.

I imagine your hands are practiced with a pen and your mouth steady with the stillness placed on it.

You say silly things, like you don’t like wearing jeans. And I’ve never yet met someone who doesn’t like coffee, but has the same moonlight running in their blood.

Comfort is a strange thing. I found myself paying close attention to the way your mouth formed around a word today. And the careful upward curve of your smile, how strange a thing it is to be comforted by a stranger’s ability to cease becoming a stranger.

I felt connected with you, we share similar lifelines. There are places and moments we can both relate to, in much the same way.

Sleep never comes easy for me, it doesn’t come easy I’ve learned for you either. Maybe that’s because of the moonlight we carry with us. The moon never sleeps, even in the middle of the day. She’s still up, you just can’t see her.

We’re intermittently silent, but it’s never uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel dangerous.

There are things I have yet to learn of you, places I have yet to tell you about.

But us werewolves, we’re immortal baby. We’ve got all the time in the world.

So laugh for me again. That’s right, laugh. With me, for me, at me; it doesn’t matter. Just laugh, because when you do, my gosh you look so beautiful.