The moon was amber and big. Real big and close, seemingly a jet plane ride away, the night I put my hands on your throat. There in the middle of that bar on Capitol Avenue. It was so cold that night. You had just loosened the yellow cashmere scarf my mother had given to you on Christmas. Your pale cheeks were fading pink from the cold and the booze and the sudden rush of excitement that overcame your body when you told me. I’m reliving that moment now. Forever.
I’ve died a billion times in my dreams. Who is to say that when I awaken, I am alive again? Did I not just die?
I have that feeling again of putting my hands on your throat and squeezing until your face goes blue and your eyes roll back. Is this what a werewolf feels when the moon is full?
You on the brink of death, and I, alive.