Contradiction

The one who wanted to come,
I wouldn't let him in.
The one who came—it's not
as if he forced his way.

Still I keep staring at the door.
This staring...
is it waiting for one who'll never return,
or is it some premonition of departure,
or is this merely a kind of escapism—
without bringing any of this to mind...
I just keep staring at the door.

Does time, then, not love time?
Or is this contradiction of time
something that happens only to me?