I'm scared,
petrified of retreating to nostalgia and chaining my ambition there
of settling for the everyday, to never dream of "ifs" and "maybe's"
to admire jewels, stars, and lovers from afar
declare them unattainable and safely hide behind anonymity
I'm afraid of comfort, of the well-known roads and faces
Yet,
is it better to cry over spilt milk,
or watch it spoil in your hands?
I don't want to live with regrets
But I know,
it's easier to live with than failure
Honestly, truly,
I'm terrified of crossing the line,
fearing every envelope could push me into ruin
Let me, then, hand the glass to a braver one
a better one than I