I get nervous when I feel happy.
Like I’m walking across a roof made of cracked glass.
I see what’s below me through the mildew stains and it seems safer than this.
Every step I take I hold my breath,
waiting for the sound of cracking glass, disappointed it’s still bearing my weight.
I’m so focused on listening, holding my breath,
I forget I’m no longer there.

But even if I am here,
I’m always there.
Whether I’m in it or above it,
I’m either there, or looking upon it.
The anticipation of falling is worse than the fall itself.