The leech

It strikes me, as I spoon you and bite softly on your shoulder, that leeches must feel kind of intimate. When their little rows of teeth hit through and the blood comes into their mouth, they must feel grateful. I don’t tell you that. I’ve hit you with enough of my little theories for 8:30am on a Saturday. I just got done telling you about how last week, I felt like I spent half my day in London’s digestive tract, waiting to be shitted out into the Thames. That got a big laugh. My bites only get a chuckle. Every time, you chuckle softly. I can’t tell if you’re annoyed.

You never bite me back – well, only when I ask you to. And this one time when you went down on me, you used a lot of teeth, but I think that was unintentional. I’d instinctively try to get away, but you’d hold my hips in place firmly, and kept biting, and that made it hot enough to come. Aside from that, you’re not a big biter.

You could if you wanted to.

I hold you and I pretend I don’t care that you are leaving soon. It works, my need resorbs into me. I wish you’d leave now and stop prolonging it. Still, I breathe you in - when you disappear, as you probably will, this will have to tide me over.