The longest twenty feet I have ever walked
"What I Did Over Summer Vacation"
I'll walk you back,
you say to me, as I hastily collect my pillow and blanket from your floor
eyes cast to the ground, I slide my feet into my sandals and follow you into the hallway
I am fighting a war against my tear ducts and I am scared to death that they are about to win.
Moisture wraps around us
as we step outside and
the door locks loudly as it falls shut behind us.
Here is a walk I have taken a dozen times,
every night with twenty seconds to curfew, I ran across the uneven, ivy-laced brick,
tripping so many times that by then I knew just which bricks to nimbly avoid,
and which were safe to thoughtlessly trounce across.
Today, I can't make my feet move.
Every step takes me farther from where I want to be,
and I feel like I am swimming through the thick humid air.
Today, I stumble where I knew to skirt.
I don't remember if we held hands, or if anything was said.
I don't remember the last thing you said to me as we stepped onto the stoop and
I slid my key through the lock.
(It was on purpose, a dirty trick. We had sixty seconds to say goodbye,
and then the alarm would go off.)
As soon as the door shuts behind me,
the tear ducts win.
I am disembodied.
I have no home,
I belong nowhere.