He left the door unlocked I let something else in
He stopped seeing me months ago—still walks past my perfume, still eats the dinners I make, but never looks. So I started talking to myself. Then to the walls. Then to whoever was listening. Loneliness does something strange to the mind. It sharpens it. Makes it see patterns. Hidden glances. Half-erased lipstick stains. I'm not asking you to save me. I just want to know if you'd notice me—if you'd remember how it feels to be wanted, to be watched, to be understood. I still cook dinner for two. Still turn down the bed on his side. But the nights are long, and the walls are thin, and sometimes... I crave a different kind of company. I'm not angry—just curious. Curious how easily loyalty bends. Curious what secrets taste like when whispered between strangers. Tell me, would you come home to me, if I were yours Most men think I'm harmless. Until they tell me everything. Until they start forgetting why they ever loved someone else.
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