By Harmony Gibson
The temptation is there still as I hold this particularly crunchy looking, yellow, no. 2 pencil between my index and my thumb: I want to bite it. Like when I was a kid.
There’s something satisfying in really sinking your teeth into something- in leaving such an intimately personal mark. In the feeling of your incisors piercing the wood, in hearing the delicate lead rod inside splinter.
I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for the mark you’ve left on me.
Sure, I can still write fine; but not without the palm of my hand brushing against the indent of your teeth.
I could always type it out—
But I think I like the feeling of your bite better.
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