My life is a series of doors, closing and opening on unpredictable hinges and sometimes the wind still sweeps one open.

A school door made of glass:

Just a girl that used to be me, with a pen in her hair and direction in her heart. She was sure, walking up those stairs. And somehow she caught your eye and you fell into each other, but not far enough.

A red door:

You’re sitting in front of the window where we watched the snow fall onto my first car, in the room with the silly green walls. We listen to the songs that we both agreed to love. Later, the house is an empty shell, and we walk through the rooms after everything familiar had been boxed up and moved away. And I didn’t cry then, but I was crying inside, and a part of me still cries out for you.

A wooden door:

And the girl who is me now sits at a desk and watches the rain without you. She listens to music that reminds her of you, and that night you danced together, or the night you held her hand. Or the night you left and another door closed.