old habits don’t die hard, they sink in their teeth and never let go. old habits will find you on a slow tuesday night and they leave the porch light on so you remember which door to knock on. when you get there, old habits seem unrecognizable, but you decide to stay anyway. you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. their words fall like a tree during a storm. old habits will not remember this, they never do. old habits never left that town but somehow follow you all the way to the city. you find them in the people who come after. old habits walk you home at the end of the night and curl up at the foot of the bed. old habits get the spare key and you let them come and go. you search for them in subway drunks, summer flings, in the people who tell you they love you but never mean it. old habits float around the apartment like a ghost you can’t get rid of, flickering the kitchen light and scratching at the door. old habits melt into the pavement with the rest of the sludge and mix with the sidewalk chalk. old habits will never let you forget which house is theirs.