There is a growl that lives within
the dark cave of his throat.
His eyes contain a beacon fire
against the black, I note.
While standing in the moonlight here
back pressed against a tree–
I watch him lick his twitching lips
as he is watching me.
I’m drawn like moths to amber flame
to his hungry restraint.
For, though he’s quite the gentleman,
I’ll wager he’s no saint.
I’ll whisper softly, laugh aloud
I’ll taunt him with my eyes–
eventually he’ll drop his guard.
I’ll get past his disguise.
You see, it’s that low growl I seek–
the hunt, the wolf, the prey.
I want his fire, his energy–
the lust he holds at bay.