think that you are dead because you beat so rarely, odd times, on the bus, in the cinema, suddenly overwhelmed by memory.
You think you are dead because when the moment arrives you are just going through the motions, but it hits you a month later, six weeks later, years after the fact, the visceral being in the moment long past. Your nipple tugs errect as if it has been nipped by tiny back teeth, you feel a moistening, a warmth, a blush in hidden places.
it was nothing at the time perhaps but it has stayed with you. You could tear down your top and expose your breasts to commuters. Your breasts that must now remain hidden. Your breasts that have had their last moment exposed to view. Too late now you ache from it. When it is all over.