Flying

He used to fly. With his lover at his side, hand in hand they flew.
He's not sure he can now.
Standing on the very edge, he looks up, squinting, at the shining sun and sees his mischevious eyes, sparkling only for him. Feels the warmth of feather-light touches, gentle fingers brushing over his skin. Smells his scent - mint, fresh air just after the rain and, surprisingly but oh so fittingly, cinnamon. Hears the melodious voice, tone joyful as he calls out:
"Come on, baby!"
It brings a smile to his tear-stained face.
He takes a step forward.