I can still feel your hands. The hands that molded and shaped my existence; sliding over warm planes of flesh, tracing and filling in gentle curves. Your hands are gone, but you left your touch on my skin. It burns like a brand, reminding me that you are never coming back and I will always be alone.
Your lips brushed mine, soft as a feather's touch, cooling the fire in my soul, setting it aflame at the same time. Wet, probing kisses, entangled tongues, and back to your hands.
Remaking me, healing the scars of my fragmented past and setting them anew, dictated by you. Your guidelines, your love, your faith... your hands. Your hands... your hands...
I miss the touch of your hands. Some hands hit, some hands hurt, some hands squeeze, and some hands kill.
I want to trade the hands that took you for yours. I liked your hands better.
I miss... your hands.
