Terminal Cool

The first time I saw her I knew she was the only one for me. If I had cast a stone at her sleek form it would have sunk without a ripple beneath her glassy surface. Icons, man-gods, have died in things such as she. When I entered her she hugged me in a warm embrace and, body, mind and soul, I was lost to her alone. Lost to her smell her look, her feel. her high-precision feminine mystique. Instantaneously, in a rush of hot blood, a pinpoint collision of clarity and chaos, the knowledge of sex and death, of life and love, possession and dispossession shotgun blasted me with the truth. I could buy her, yes, but never own her. Have her, but never hold her. She would be companion, conveyance and coffin. She would take me anywhere I wanted to go.