07 November, 2015


Flecks of spittle fling from my lip.
Every blink smears a foggy sheen on tired retinas, receding ever more reluctantly.
Ninety minutes in and sodden feelings begin to seep through cape, jacket, skin. Finding reddened flesh.

I look at nothing but see much, flitting past in peripherals. Damp fields, the drip from a hawthorn branch gliding downwards, impossibly slow, as I slither past. 
Profiles of faces in cars, warmer than mind but pale, lifeless. Bleak.

A gnawing permeates taut muscles, ancient pains twinge in a knee from seasons past. Core temperature drops, as do shoulders, and I know I have at best a handful of miles left in me. Welcome back.
                                    I'm home.

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