the air grows colder and
leaves crunch underfoot.
stress and agitation trickle down my neck
as i make my way by moonlight and
centuries-old street lamps.
i look behind me
as i force my key into its lock—
always looking back
as if someone will be waiting for me there.
my door moans in agitation,
a sound i can feel in my bones.
the light is already on—
always burning
the midnight oil.
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