Better than revenge|Carlos De Vil

And they always come back don't they, once you've healed and moved on, they knock on your door and no matter how you've decorated and changed and grown, no matter the new color you patined the wood to rid all memory of them, it doesn't matter he knows where your door is, and they will tell you it looks different.

You look different and you will think to yourself how you do not feel different, that every distraction you crafted to forget them has only left you, as the unrecognizable one, yet he recognizes you and he comes back, and you sigh and you laugh to yourself how a year ago you would have begged for this, and how now you lock the door to prepare for a break in, but you let him in not because you love him, but because you miss being loved, but it doesn't feel like it did, nostalgic lovesick without the love, and you will write a poem about it, in which you will come to realize.

You loved writing letters more than you loved writing them about him, and that you loved loving more than you loved him, and that no matter how much time may pass, or the revelations you come to experience about how it was good that he left.

You will let him in when he comes back, only for a moment only for a quick text back, or a parking lot kiss, or a phone call, or a follow back you let him linger by the door he slammed shut and he looks different, doesn't he like a stranger you may have known in a past life, and you are sad and you don't know why, and they always come back, and they always leave and you start to unlock the door, just in case he misses your body, or misses your perfume or misses your thoughts, or misses your company and you wish you never let him come and see your new door, and you start to watch the patin chip, and you wonder if it was beautiful before or after you'd opened it,