Old friend,

Why is the space I kept for you in my heart

Still so warm and welcoming

Splayed with cushions and soft light turning pink as it reflects off my insides

Old photographs and CDs spilling over the edges of the rug on the ground

I thought it had been vacant for years.

Do I go there in my sleep?

Do you sneak in and out by yourself?

I’ve never needed someone more 

I’ve never needed someone less

How does that make sense?

If I board up the entrance 

(If someone shows me how

I’ve never been good with that stuff)

Will you come knocking?

Will my arteries start clogging?

Do I want to know?

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