my hand smells like oranges, I think. I am sitting in the library surrounded by many voices and people’s laughter, some distractions around but nothing is quite as distracting from my work than the thought of these oranges – it’s a sweet smell, reminds me of sticking a thumb in through the peel as you try to take it off with one hand like I once challenged you to do, and then holding that hand, fingers blurring together and apart.
Should I be surprised that this has continued for many weeks now?
But as always, you are gentle. With rejection, with love, with passion that flies under the radar until someone asks you about it and let it all go off. I wonder how much tension you are holding in your mind and body, how much of it goes unacknowledged, and how much of it you might want someone to ask you about.