The longest twenty feet I have ever walked

"What I Did Over Summer Vacation"

to Darius

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.