The thought of you makes me trepidatious; my body trembles over the longing for you. Like a condemned werewolf yearning for the blood moon, I, too, am a lycanthrope whose heart goes berserk over the sight of your flesh. This nyctophobia self will like to feast in the heat of the night, being wild and frenzy, dancing ecstatically, indulging in the pheromones from every tickle of your sweat. I will let my soul to be decadent and this sepulchral soul will gladly have its perdition for the lust over you.
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