A Taste
“I want to taste us on you...” I type it. Then just sit there, fingers hovering over keys, heart hammering like I’ve shouted it out. Maybe I did, to no one but this quiet room, the low hum of my monitor swallowing the sound in my silent house. Your typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. You’re hesitating. And that hesitation is the reply. We’re always almost saying it. Almost doing it. Yet never quite. Is it a lack of privacy? Or a lack of intention? If you wanted to, you would. That’s what I tell myself. Maybe it’s this dance, the almost, that keeps us hooked. Is it guilt that stops you? Maybe fear? Fear of losing control when control is what keeps you safe... You send back a kiss emoji. Not flirtatious. Just… soft. Like you’re saying: I feel it too. I am fed-up of this wanting... it’s not gentle. It’s an ache. A gnawing hunger that coils low in my gut and won’t let go. You leave me restless. I want to consume you then walk away leaving bruises and ...