dinner bell

You are right. For me, thinking too much of you is dangerous.

It always has been.

I suspect it always will be.

I love to tease: threading ideas, promised edges sharp enough to draw blood.

For me, it’s like a cat sharpening her claws.

Or a wolf sharpening his teeth.

There is a depth to the hunger I have for you.

Or to be more honest…there _isn’t_ a depth. Because that implies I know the distance we have to fall. And what makes you so dangerous is that I don’t think there is a bottom.

You’re the other part of the blade.

With others, I want to tear them apart.

With you, I want to tear you apart. And then I want to put you back together and do it again.

And again.

And again.

And that scares me.

Because there is no plateau to the kind of hunger I harbor with you. There is just falling.

And I want that. I want you sitting on the edge of my desk in a skirt and nothing underneath. I want to bite my way up the inside of your leg. Not sharp bites. But wolf ones, the kind that are half way between nibble and flesh tearing. I want to take my time. Until I can feel you shivering.

I know that shiver. I know the way it starts inside of you, rising until you can’t stop it.

It’s like a dinner bell for me.

Leave a Reply