Drops of rain still leaden on the grass.
The slope beside the lake, in the afternoon.
His arms are folded across his chest,
as he looks out to a sinister forest.

Everybody's inside wondering where he is.
My teenage werewolf, what's bothering you?
Alone, he stares across the pond.
Problems aren't this heavy.

I wasn't there to hear the immanent thunder.
I'm not there for us to share an umbrella,
as the shower starts, he's a statue.
Nothing could move those steely eyes.

Sprawled against the cold earth.
A striped shirt, saturated; his golden hair, plastered.
If anything, he's never felt so alive.
If anything, he's never felt so alone.

It's not just at night on a full moon,
it's his constant, his enemy: this burden of a secret.
Fingers raking through blades of wet grass.
Splashing puddles, sighing sorrow to the world.

From behind a window, I can envy the rain.
If only I could cleanse him.
From here, I can loathe him for the torment he's planted.
If only he could sedate his temper.

Resting beside the burning fire,
I could lurk on the inside forever.
But the truth is, a werewolf is all he'll ever be.
When I realize that, I'll leave.