I always used to dread the long
walks home,
throwing suspicious glances
toward the shadows
made by trees
(or criminals,
who knows).

But now,
I almost relish them.
The time I have to myself
is almost comforting.
I have nothing to distract
myself with,
so I let the wind slip
through my fingers,
let it play with the loose strands
of my hair.

(You are here. This will pass.)