Summer nights like this, hot and dead, my legs recall the endless circles paced along well worn paths, between brick buildings and silent chapels, dormitory windows slid wide to catch a nonexistent breeze. Sleepless nights like this, my legs itch to run but you are sleeping fitfully beside me and I no longer need to go seeking in the dark, headphones blaring Eisley and Imogen Heap, Sixpence None the Richer urging me onward another loop in the endless quest for something which couldn’t possibly be real yet lays at my side now, a lifetime later. I sought you for so long that on these stifling nights my body still falls into the familiar rhythm, the need to pace, to pine, to be unsettled and unfulfilled, the impulse almost overwhelming until I turn over and brush my hand across your bare skin to feel your warmth and life beneath my touch, the proof of our reality; the proof we no longer need to wander in lonely circles on restless nights and return, exhausted, to empty beds – our seeking is over.