Wonder, worry, anticipation, fear.
Like a tight rope walker, I stand on a razor thin wire between too pushy and too distant. Too nosy or indifferent.
You’re finally opening up again, like a flower in the spring, but my over watering or cold spurs could **** it.
I have this bad habit of overthinking and seeing every bad mood-as my fault, or something I can totally fix.
How do I tell you I still want to give you the world, even if I’m not it?
I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.
From day one I’ve wanted to protect you from the horrors of this cruel world and that hasn’t changed my delicate flower.
So a tight rope walker I’ll stay, until I topple.