I smashed my finger today. As I winced in pain and blew out my cheeks in hopes of dulling the throbs of my knuckles, I remembered the first time you caressed my hand with your lips.

I've stopped that horrible habbit; you know, the one where I'd always bite my nails.

The nail-bed split and a dark red started to ooze over the manicured soft pink color. I cussed under my breath and held a towel to my wound.

My chubby cheeks that you would lovingly joke about have been chiseled away by age and are now high ***** with slight dimples.

Soaked through the white cloth, I looked down upon my mangled hand: a faint line from your devotion still remains.

My shaky hand searched for the band-aids. Although I could no longer see the blood, the sting still lingered. Without notice I shifted my movements, catering to the ache.