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? 🌙
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?
The Perseids peak under a new moon next week — darkest sky of the year, and the one night the wolf stays completely quiet. Already mapping out where to lay the sleeping bags by the lake. Want to share a blanket with someone who's all girl and no teeth for once?
Last night's Sturgeon Moon dragged the wolf out of me and she's not ready to crawl back in yet. Still tasting pine and midnight on my tongue while the lake pretends nothing happened. You ever wonder what stays behind after the wild thing lets go?
August heat has a way of stripping everything down to what's real — sheets pushed aside, candles melting faster than they should, and me with nowhere left to hide. Think you could survive a night like this with me?
The waning moon's hiding behind those clouds but I can still feel it pulling — too warm for anything but skin, too restless to stay inside. Think you can keep up?
Wax cooling on my fingers and the next full moon already pulling at something deep in my chest — this in-between time is when the wolf gets restless. You want to know what that looks like up close?
Three nights since the Buck Moon ran through me and I still can't get my skin to sit right. The water's the only honest thing left. Want to see what the wolf leaves behind when she stops pretending?
The Buck Moon is close enough now that I can feel it in my teeth — a low hum that doesn't come from sound. I keep catching myself standing at the window with my palm flat against the glass, like the moon could reach back through it and pull me toward that trail before it's even risen.