Spring or summer or some such sun-drenched time of year. I smell mock orange and at night there is the crisp white sweetness of night jasmine. I am embalmed in scent. I am heavy as morphine, my lungs filled with heat haze, my eyes filled with the flesh of young women. Shoe string straps, new tans, pillowy young skin opening its new petalled nakedness. On days like today I regret my inability to touch. My senses are filled, but my skin longs to share in the sensual stimulation. I want to brush against people, fill my arms with hugs I want to lay my hand on the shoulders of the young girls and smell the hint of their sugary perfume clinging to my hands. I want to rub fresh sweat against my pulse points. I want to be cradled and leaned against and danced with.
I bump against him and I flinch. My predictable reaction to other human beings.
That time I left without hugging. I wanted to hug, but I held my bicycle between his body and my own, a protective barrier. A sheild. Now I regret.
Still there is a thin breeze and it touches me and it is like somebodies hand and it has the scent of flowers on it. Good as a touch. Good as a hug. I regret the lack of a hug.
Next time I will. Next time.
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