on the road home
the moon, a pockmarked disc suspended in the night sky. a quiet evening passes by, with only the sound of crickets and the hum of streetlamps to rustle its soft tranquility. the last wispy embers of summer linger in the air, floating diodes that litter the expanse of shaded darkness. and youre here next to me, slippers flip-flopping, kicking up rocks all over the place. your hair, still wet from the bathhouse, shimmers in the soft glow of summer. youre telling me about your day in between mouthfuls of yoghurt, about how your boss had behaved like a complete douche canoe. the windless night really carries your voice around, echoing throughout the houses and shops as you get increasingly animated. and i smile at how my shirt seems a tad too big for you, how you have a spring in your step and excitement in your eyes as you talk on and on. you stop and peer at me through narrowed eyes, asking if your misery is all that amusing to me. the crickets are still chirping away, with the low rumble of a faraway train and a few hoots of a friendly owl to accompany us. i offer no reply, only sticking my tongue out and walking just a few steps closer next to you. around us is an aura of warmth and happiness, undisturbed by the fuzzy darkness. and so we cross threshold after threshold of orange incandescence, each step bringing us closer home.
and closer to each other.