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Your lips are not the bright red of apples;
they flush coral pink against your pale skin.
I want to tangle in your hair like smoke
that rises, and linger like pocket change
you jostle-jingle against your hip. You
just stand there backlit by the summer moon

bulging bronzely above. A gibbous moon
casting black shadows on bright red apples
you have arranged for a late-night feast. You
are unaware. How the scent of your skin
makes my mouth water! There’s a subtle change;
stubble bristles on my jaw, dark as smoke.

You say you’ll be back after a brief smoke,
the sliding door’s glass glints under the moon,
and you step into the night sky. The change
proceeds. I am not hungry for apples;
but peel one with a knife, spiraling skin.
You slide in with the wind whistling. And you

have no clue how much I want to bite you,
claw you, throw you to the floor, sweat and smoke
scenting—tinting—the paleness of your skin.
I grin. My teeth gleam whitely in the moon-
light. I toss you one of the red apples.
You bite. Juice runs down your chin. And the change

takes hold. I lunge at you, howling. Can’t change
my direction and don’t want to. It’s you
I hunger for. We knock over apples
as we fall to floor. Your hair is smoke
and clouds around your face. The summer moon
shines an argent beacon on your pale skin.

You claw back, red lines rise on my bronze skin,
clothing falls slow like leaves when autumn’s change
transforms green to gold beneath harvest moon.
You are slick with sweat and desire. You
burn with such brightness I can see the smoke.
Your cheeks flush red as forgotten apples.

Forbidden apples don’t tempt like your skin.
It’s you who transform and bring on the change.
If I am a werewolf, you are the moon.

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