He stared at her tits during the funeral,
eyes stalking the curves and pulls in the fabric,
where once emanated warmth and a steadily
He knew the weight well,
could easily lose himself in the memories
of her clinging tight to his arm,
pressing herself against his back,
flattening herself with her chest to his,
and her lips a teasing breath away.
Her hair would always fall into his face,
would always make his skin itch,
but the thought was the same,
“Don’t ever fucking move,”
and she’d answer with a smile,
“You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off them,
kept expecting them to rise and fall with little rabbit breaths
and the contented hum she’d give
before swatting her face and rolling over,
or stretching her legs and kicking him
right in the shin.
Lowering his head into his hands,
he began to sob.
He really missed ~~her~~