Once you've loved someone your hands don't move quite the same again. In every object you hold is the curve of their neck; the weight of their tired head; the wrap of their body; the trust of their hand; the hoist for their foot; the gentleness of their face; the rhythm of their sighs; their pulsing moans; a tangle of their hair which you delicately free with patience and finesse. Like a phantom extension of your soul, they become a platform for your standard operating procedure. No matter how far away you think they've become, your muscle memory tells you they're but a brush stroke in the art of loving you forever express; which developed from their presence in the moments of your greatest, most treasured primal urges. You'll take that love to your grave. For love is a bullet you can choose to dodge, or elect to let penetrate you to whichever degree of impact and pain you, and you alone, will forever feel as scar tissue and as an old, slowly healing injury which will be bothered by performing a familiar act you were once a master at.