I feel stronger. Thinner in the way that everything is stretching and sometimes you’re stretched fragile and taught and pale. But able to withstand being stretched again, a little more ache but you’re okay. Or a different kind of ache. One more outwardly focused and bigger, but lighter. A parachute.
I roll my neck and feel the grateful warmth of tense muscles yawning behind my ribcage. The after tea taste coats my tongue. My tobacco’s running low and I should be asleep. But there’s a window of time when it’s dark and unfathomable to be awake for any other reason than to be alone, with book. Or paper and pen. Or window.