"The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief" Othello, Act I; Scene III
Last night on the M5 the cars were like quicksilver; the buildings steeped in clean purple with their usually cold windows throwing thick flecks of gold back at the sun. It was beautiful. Later I ran until my chest could contain no more night air and my blood boiled with the pacing. I ran circuits in the dark with my hood up; lay back on the cold ground with my feet on a bench and my eyes tracing the stars’ circuits in turn. The earth breathing autumn chill against my spine, I talked with a friend about love, in the tentative language of proud men; paced back through the night streets before driving to your door. Turned over and over under a thick duvet, traced your neck’s estuary with these fingers; slipped through a tesseract to another time, woke clenched tight against your skin; body warm, head still, heart chanting.
