Behind That Door

By Justin Cude

There’s so many things in my life that repeat.

Maybe for yours, the same.

I’ve been there before.

I’ve felt that way.

I’ve seen where this leads.

I’ve experienced that pain.

Maybe for you, the same.

I know what’s behind that door, but I keep opening it.

Most moments I know I shouldn’t. That could be a fool. But it only takes one.

I usually fall for that moment.

No matter how much thought, how much hesitation. I fall for that moment.

I open it again.

Sometimes its me knocking on the door. It’s not always answered. It’s not always ignored, either.

Other times I hear the knocking. Sometimes I’ll answer. Other times I wont. I’ll ignore it.

But again, it only takes one. One fool. One moment. And, that door’s open again.

And, I know what’s behind that door, but its open again.

It’s not all bad, though. It’s not all good, either.

It’s not all the same. It’s not all different, I’ll admit.

The first step back tends to be different. The first gaze makes it all seem foreign.

I think we want it to be. I believe we need it to be.

Then, you notice what hasn’t changed. Not everything does. Most of it, yes. But, not everything.

I believe we want it to be. No, I think we need it to be.

It’s not about the changes, though. It’s not about the things which remain the same, either.

I don’t know what its about. I’m tired of guessing. Something invites you in, though. It is welcoming.

There is a home to it.

And you fall for it.

Maybe home is what its about. At least a sense of it.

A gypsy’s mind yearns for that, too.

A traveler’s body.

A sailor’s devotion.

An artist’s attempt.

A carney’s hidden sorrow.

A soldier’s sacrifice.

All the same. They yearn for that, too.

At least a sense of it.

But, I know what’s behind that door, and its open again.

It’s not that, though.

It’s not that, anymore.

It’s not even yesterday, anymore.

Not yet tomorrow, but, not even…

this…

… anymore.

This becomes that.

Now its not even that, anymore.

I’m not even me, anymore.

Not the me from before.

Maybe a sense of it.

Maybe for you, the same.

Maybe a sense of it.

That could be a fool.

So much uncertainty.

But, I know whats behind that door.

That could be a fool, too.

No.

I know whats behind that door.

But, there’s those moments again when I don’t.

Maybe I’ve forgotten. Maybe I’ve wanted to have forgotten. Maybe I honestly don’t know anymore. Maybe its all a lie. Maybe I’ve lied to myself. Been lied to, maybe.

Maybe we all have.

Maybe we all do.

No.

I know whats behind that door. But, its open again.

But, I’m not asking why no more.

No expectations.

No thought of how come. No wonder of what if.

They come back around, I’ll admit.

But, I know them now. I know their presence and I know their stay, and I know neither are very long. Not anymore. Not as long as before.

I never expected to pass through here again.

I’ve learned that too; I’ve learned that to be a fool.

I was just looking for what was looking for me.

No. That’s a fool. I was looking for anything.

I never expected to pass through here again, though.

But, here I am.

Again.

The first step, different. The first gaze, foreign.

I know what’s behind that door. Do I, though?

There are similarities, though. And, there are differences, too.

I know what’s behind that door, but this one?

I’ve been there before, but not here.

I’ve felt that way, but not this.

I’ve seen where this leads, but not end.

I’ve experienced that pain, and I will again.

Never have I felt like this before, though.

And, never will I again. Not exactly like this. No, not ever again.

Not exactly like this.

There is no door. The whole damn thing a fool.

There’s only this. That from before. And then, maybe, there’s more.

We’re all exposed to it.

Subjected, rather.

Behind that door, no longer I hide.

My mind no longer blind.

Blocked.

Closed.

Shut.

That could be fool. It only takes one.

There is no door, though.

There’s only this. That from before. And then, maybe, there’s more.

Behind that door, from my mind, no longer I hide.