She knew this street the
way you know a song
you've heard too many
times — every crack in
the sidewalk, every
window with its lamp
still on at six.
Walking it again, she
felt the day's pressure
loosen, the way a fist
loosens when no one is
watching. She wasn't
going anywhere; that was
the honest part. She was
moving because staying
still felt like admitting
something she wasn't
ready to name.
A bus passed, full of
people going home to
someone. She didn't feel
jealous, only tired in a
clean, quiet way.
She turned down a smaller
street. The lights came
on one by one, as if
waiting for her to admit
she was lost.