Lust is grabbing a firm, hard, perky breast and playing with it's pointy, rose hued nipple until you've both fallen asleep. Even in your dreams, he reaches around and cups them like handle bars, afraid to let go lest the whole bicycle disappears.

Love is 20 years later, scraping the same bosom from the floor, dusting it off and scooping it back into the bra, where it continues to hang, looking like a windsock full of wet sand. Regardless of the rust, he continues to grasp those handle bars and ride that bike with the same enthusiasm, as if it were new.