Isn't it funny how quickly the past becomes so prevalent to the now? How the desires of yesteryear's have found themselves quietly morphing into the realizations of missed opportunities of today? See, I was never one for emotions, and well, I still don't know how to tend to them properly, but you opened up a unknown part of me that hasn't quite closed completely. I thought I did my best in erasing you from my memory and I thought I cleared my mind of all it's persuading, but it's taken me just now to understand the fault in this seemingly well thought out plan. Have you ever turned on the t.v, and flipped past a home improvement show, and listened as the well groomed men in tight jeans pointed out the flaws that's slowly crippling the home? The carpet's outdated, the kitchen's too small, the paint it is chipping on the walls in the halls. The backyard bushes are overgrown and the patio's kind of eroded, and when the estimated bill total comes around, they mistake you for being loaded! (Please bear with me on this, it'll only take a moment. I know it might seem like I'm rambling, but I know where I'm going.) I've seen them too, more times than I'd like to admit, but there's something they always point out that has found a way to really stick. When an old house has some doors, all wooden and creaky, that make it hard to sneak out for a mid-night snack because the hinges are kind of squeaky, there's always two explanations. One, a hot climate causes the wood to expand from its frame. Or two, the house's foundation has settled and it's leveling isn't the same. Now take this information, and place it with your imagination, and pretend that this house is old me. And let's say each door, elevated from its floors, leads to a room whose contents you can't see. Specific keys, for specific locks, words wrapped in ribbon, give comfort to the spaces that rarely get lived in. Past lovers have come, and left with a slam, and some have come knocking back with wilting flowers and stale chocolates in hand. The love and the family that's said to make a house a home, have despaired me with broken promises and left me alone. So I'd call it a night, even when it was day, and for 435 sunrises and sunsets, I shunned all interested buyers away. Then on the 436th afternoon, as I coughed up a cobweb, I saw a new face peeking in from ahead. The curtains were drawn, as tight as can be, yet they still couldn't fight you from looking at me. Each day from then on I'd watch you stop by, walking around, hands in pockets, and leaving with a sigh. "Something different?" I supposed as I tidied my room, "Perhaps not." I corrected with the distinct scent of gloom.