Rooms We Leave Behind

I walk through the hallways of who I used to be,
opening doors to rooms I haven't seen in years.
There is the boy who was afraid of the dark,
holding a flashlight under the covers.
There is the teenager, slamming a door,
believing that love was a war to be won.

I don’t live here anymore.
The furniture has changed.
The walls are painted different colors,
painted by the hands of time and consequence.

But sometimes, when the wind blows right,
I can still hear the echoes of their laughter,
and I leave the door unlocked,
just in case they ever need to come home.