This Morning, I Left You


Last night, you leaned back against the head board, closed your eyes, sighed, and guided my mouth down the length of you, moaning softly when you felt the moisture of my lips and my tongue surrounding your cock, moving up and down, giving you what you wanted until finally, you whispered something I couldn’t quite hear, and you finished. You rolled onto your side and I held you, running my hand along your arm, your chest, resting it on your stomach, feeling your body relax against me as you drifted off to sleep.

This morning, I felt you reach down to touch my hair before you left for work. You kissed my cheek and I barely opened my eyes but I murmured that I loved you before the door shut gently behind you.

I had an English muffin for breakfast. I watched television for four hours before finally washing my hair with your seven dollar shampoo and getting dressed. I folded some clothes on the floor, I typed you a brief letter, and then I got in my car.

Last night, we slept side by side with our hands reaching for each other, and today, I am leaving.

What you will understand from the note I left you is that I love you. I will always love you, but you never loved me. You don’t know how. I am leaving you because being with you has been like being an alcoholic. Sometimes, I am drunk on you, and it is wonderful to be held in your gaze and to feel the warmth of your affection flowing through my veins like booze, causing me to sway and forget how to speak. Most of the time, it seems, lately, I am hung over from the sudden absence of your touch. I am in withdrawal. I ache for more, even though I know the cycle is bound to repeat itself.

There will always be an empty space in my heart that is shaped like you. There will always be a groove worn into my body where you fit perfectly. You will always be there in the back of my mind, but I am leaving because I have given you everything a person could possibly give and now there is nothing left.

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