Some people you invite in with open arms, you light them a candle, show them to their room. They lay trusted in your heart as you sleep. Those rooms will always be theirs, no matter how long they’re gone. They have a home in you.
Other people talk their way in, convince you to give them a room, have you asking yourself why you’re sleeping with one eye open. Those rooms will never be theirs, the longer they're gone the less you think of them, they were never invited in, they were never given a home.
I think this explains your love with them too. You will always love some people, you can't help it, they live in you; in presence or memory. Those who force their way in and set fires in your house are loves that grow dimmer and dimmer as the fires go out. Until one day all that's left is the burnt wood on the staircase that you can't seem to mend. Something you become so accustomed to you forget it's even there.
I’m putting out my fires, and trying my best to forget the staircase.
