To Touch Them Again

I never imagined that I could feel this way. I may have read about it in an old novel or seen it in a black-and-white film, namely, the will and the need, not necessarily in that order, to die for someone or something in order to see her—it is almost always a woman—one last time. She has to be a femme fatale, one may think, or a muse, but she was—still is—the woman whom I wanted to taste again and again until my ultimate tastelessness. Now, I was ready to settle for one last time.

I wanted to touch them again, one at a time, and then, if my chest could afford it, both of them together, like a couple in love and lust. Love-lust is like space-time, as more of one requires more of the other; more space, more time, and more love, more lust. What about more lust? It depends on the love. More lust could turn into more love, as it is not a simple equation like that of space-time. Life is much more complicated that non-life. Death is just the end of life.

Her right breast was the one that I saw first, as she showed me her breasts, one at a time, heaven after heaven. I still loved them equally, or at least tried my best. From breast to breast, growing nipple to growing nipple, I bathed with them with all my senses, speaking to them in my first language, watching them protrude towards me, inviting me to adopt them, although they already knew the future. Her breasts were fortunetellers. I heard what they had to say from the start.

To start me up was the easiest action in the Cosmos. While the Rolling Stones had proclaimed it several decades ago as a general movement, her breasts were the wicks of the fires beginning to burn within me. I loved and lusted for them during every waking hour, with my dreams turning them into lifeboats and lifesavers. Two hands for two breasts. How perfect she was—still is—from nipple to nipple to pussy! A Pythagorean triangle if ever there was one.

Something important had been misplaced; a primordial priority in the love-lust continuum. Intent. What? You read right. Intention in my first language, which has a different meaning in English. I showed my intent (mon intention) from the start; there was no doubt about it, even in French. I had adopted them, both in my mind and with words; sonnets and alexandrines to sing their graces and charms out loud. They loved me more than she did. It was obvious after a trimester.

I intended to love and lust for her for as long as I lived. Her breasts were aware of it, as was the rest of her body. The issue was in her head, where my intent was rejected. My intent was displaced somewhere as intangible. I hoped that it was only misplaced, but even I could not locate it as months without her passed into the past. My intent was lost. I still felt it, but I could not hold on to it. Without this intent, there was no reason to go on and hold on to life. Death promised to taste sweeter.