It’s over. He knows that. But the flesh has memory, too, and with memory comes longing. His body recalls the way she felt, surrounding him; his mind thinks of the words they said that last day. Their voices mingle now, the way their limbs did then, and even concentrating, he can’t distinguish which words left which mouth.  And while his body pines for additional contact, his thoughts stretch their time together by meticulously reconstructing the touches they’ve already shared. How much longer can he keep them together? Days, hours, minutes? He wonders.  Perhaps only a single breath? His body answers: Give it.