Old Habits

I’m addicted to what I know—
old habits,
I can’t let you go.

Every “what-if” leads me back to your door,
but I’m empty now,
and you are too
yet, I still run back to you.

My ego is on your accent chair; hanging,
my body imprinted on your sheets,
my soul sitting on your shelf—
but you still want more.

I guess,
I will never be enough.
But I’ll be back—
tomorrow,
next week,
and every tomorrow after that.

Because you’re the habit I never tried to kill.

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