8 min

The wind slides behind my glasses and my eyes turn to the ground. Quietly, the night takes a deep breath, and my lungs follow suit. My feet move swiftly, carrying me up the glistening road, bathed in streams that the streetlights wish they could always be. I hear the breath of the night, and I slow down as my glasses fog up due to my own exhaling. Finally, quiet. The wind pushes my face, saying 'look behind you.' I don't obey, and a car passes, one I didn't see. I wait for the car to move from the red sign and my feet continue. Bob Dylan whispers in my head, we've walked this road together a lot this past week. Tonight though, I just want to walk and listen to the dark. We walk in silence. 'Look behind you,' pushes the wind; this time I see the car, the only noise on the lonely street except for the gusts that sound like seashells in my ears. I listen to my feet-they hurt but seem to float because they leave no print, no trace that they ever trod this street, except for my memory. 'Look behind you' cries the wind, and there is nothing. But my breath speeds. I hear something else, it's no longer silent. I look ahead and around the corner, there they are. Three of them. My eyes hit the sidewalk and I hold my breath, wishing to melt back into the darkness. They laugh and joke and pay me no mind, and my lungs relax as my feet fly me across the asphalt and rails. Now my feet are louder, the sidewalk turns downward like the tip of a frown, and I have returned to the ebb and flow that only occurs when one walks alone, with no sun and no moon. The sidewalk turns at ninety degrees, and I follow it. I see a car, the headlights behind me. I miss the dark, hide me once again. The gate rattles and sticks, but now I am home, and as I am here, I wish I were there, waiting and listening.