Swansong: Memories of Pompidou

“Your touch was like a swansong, leading you in me… another moment, a hurried kiss, a breathless caress. Ten million stolen lifetimes or more.”
I have fought and fought battles with my mind, I wept and cried trying to shy away your memory, and I thought that maybe disregarding emotions was my only chance of survival. I sought solace in the illusion that I was not like other women; sentiment does not rule my life, I told myself. I never had the time or the energy for emotional excesses; neither did I have the inclination. I thought so. I thought all this and more, letting thought take the place of passion; the passion that was searing through my veins, almost threatening to consume me.
I cannot think anymore. My mind seems to fail me. I cannot pine for all the unshed tears that still shroud your memory. I wish, like most writers of love songs do, that you were here. With the risk of sounding a trifle melodramatic, my heart breaks into a million pieces, just trying to contain the memory of your face, of your trembling hands, the look in your eyes as I left you, the shiver on your lips as I kissed you one last time, the touch of your fingers leaving mine reluctantly, the heaviness in my heart as I write this now.