We were once black furred wolves
fleeing through pines
towards winter's dark mouth.
We mocked the wooden ravens
who trod one-by-one to temple
to hide from constellations.
Danger haunted each nook,
but we were drunk on moonlight,
taunting the eyes that stalked us.
In a pale clearing
you asked, Wouldn't it be romantic
to die beneath the stars?
But morning came before death.
I looked at my watch
and vaguely remembered who I was.