Getting Home

 

It’s the end of the night.

 

We Cinderella’s grasp at each

other, saying goodbye.

We utter promises.

‘Text me when you get home?’

‘Make sure you text me when you get back!’

‘Just pop me a text when you’re through the door.’

 

We separate.

 

The journey home seems

longer

than the one it took to get there.

It’s darker.

It’s quieter,

yet louder.

 

 

Shadows elongate. As does the fear.

Your guard is up,

like the keys between your fingers.

Every noise a threat.

Unexpected movements make you jump,

shuddering in your skin.

 

Hands tremble as the keys reach their locks.

The door opens then closes.

Safety.

Warmth.

Home.

 

You send the text, as you promised.

You wouldn’t want them to worry.

You made it home without trouble.

You hope the same can be said next time.