8|23|19
the traveler
people come and go, create and destroy. they can do so many things, yet so few do.
the traveler had gone again. the darkness enveloped the house like a curtain, ivy clinging to paint-peeling wooden panels barely illuminated by the glow of a humming street lamp. keys jangled in my pocket, as i withdrew them, and slid the silver one into the lock. click.
the traveler had gone again. his bicycle, black and wet with dew, lay where it always had been and always would be. my own across from it, tethered to the back porch. the door swung inwards, as i stepped over the brown kitten who gave a mewl of displeasure as i closed the door again. click.
the traveler had gone again. i flicked on the lights in the kitchen, overcome with a sense of space around me, and of the intense quiet. it was late, i'd just gotten home from work. i fumbled with the tie around my neck, as i made my way through the kitchen and into the connecting hall. i reached my bedroom door. click.
the traveler had gone again. the light panels on the wall flickered to life, recognizing my presence. i began to sing softly to myself, undoing the buttons of my shirt one by one. i paused, my brows knotted together- my roommate was probably home, why had i thought it would be alright to sing? i'd seen his bicycle in the yard.
the traveler had gone again. my hand moved towards my pocket, extracting the phone within. the screen illuminated softly, a sweet familiarity was this. my fingers gently tapped across the flat surface. 'are you home tonight?' click.
the traveler had gone again. i could hear the kitchen door swing inwards, the lights flick on again. he had been gone, and i had known as much.
the traveler had gone again.
irritated, i turned in early.