The Corner Unwatched

The Corner Unwatched

There is a sound

not quite a footstep,

not quite the wind,

following the rhythm

of my own.

When I stop,

it stops.

When I walk faster,

the night seems to tighten

and pull itself closer.

Streetlights hang above me

like tired moons,

casting long shadows

that stretch farther

than they should.

One of them

doesn't seem to belong.

I tell myself

it is only darkness,

only imagination

finding shapes

inside empty spaces.

But imagination

doesn't breathe.

It doesn't make the hairs

along my neck

rise all at once

like grass before a storm.

The houses are asleep.

The trees hold their silence.

Even the crickets,

those stubborn singers of summer,

have swallowed their songs.

Something waits

in the pause they leave behind.

I keep my eyes forward.

The road is familiar.

My hands are steady.

My heartbeat

pretends to be.

The feeling stays with me—

not touching,

not speaking,

only existing

a single step beyond certainty.

I reach my door.

My key trembles against the lock.

For one brief moment,

before the bolt slides home,

I feel it nearest.

Close enough

to lean over my shoulder.

Close enough

to know my name.

The door shuts.

The silence returns.

Yet long after midnight,

lying awake in the dark,

I leave one corner of the room

unwatched,

because some part of me

is still afraid

of what I might see

standing there

if I finally looked.