0030 Breasts

I’ve only got to say the word…and I can hear the male murmur murmur right now mixed with a hurhur hurhur as of naughty boys… suddenly lips and fingers have their vivid, hungry memories… while ladies have their own reactions not unaware of the murmur hurhur and the fact that some men think they own these, ungifted, as of right… and some of us, perforce, have memories as intimate, loving, detailed, at our fingertips: the years that once a day or twice I took the soothing cream and powder, and with such respect and love and courtesy washed as gently as I could, dab-dried with even more light a touch, lifting those still heavy and magnificent creations, then with first the cream and then the powder traced with so careful finger, the sweaty sores that brassiere and human warmth had made under the milky skin, lightly veined in blue, the other hand shifting their tender, surprising weight to make the task so perfect, all the while listening carefully for that slight intake of breath that meant that pain was a necessary factor in this task… and those days of delicate comedy when I sought with such care among the women’s stores seeking out the older assistants, prefacing my potentially kinky or erotic request, they might think, with reasons: the sores, the preference for front-fastening, the possibilities of sleep-bras which however failed to hold those splendid orbs… the sports bras which might be too tight – I could have made a career of it… and when you died, at a hundred years and two, the skin unblemished, smooth, unwrinkled on your back and round those lovely breasts I’m left with that strange, unasked treasure – love beyond desire, And fingers full of memories of care.