I don’t know who I was speaking to. Him or myself. A map was hypothetically drawn in my head; with a plasma red line from his location and mine. Blood dripped onto Chicago’s skyline.
Please don’t love me.
If we pierced open our veins to connect ourselves on a map, I knew that I’d have to start being honest. I’d have to let him taste the iron in my blood and wrap my wounds in gauze that I’d normally let clot.
I bit my lip and opened a cut. I try to lick the blood away, tasting melancholy metal, but he reaches out and wipes it off with his finger. Grabbing my chin, he kisses me before my lip could bleed again.
When he breaks away, he touches his lip as it starts to bleed crimson, and I wipe it just as he did for me.
“I promise you I will be here to tend to your wounds,” he says.
And he uses our blood to draw a plasma red line on the map.