Apparently I talk as though
something's missing from your book.
I laugh because I know there's not, yet
I'd be lying if I said that I
hadn't already looked.

When I speak of you my words reveal
none of that which you've become,
I dare not tell them what you mean to me,
nor how you make me feel, once more,
young.

I'm feel as though I'm wobbling from
the sturdiness of your grip.
Unbalanced and uncompromised,
I'm bracing myself to slip
away from you.

I'm waiting for you to leave,
preparing myself to grieve
over your loss. A small voice
attempting to convince that
I never gave a toss for you
at all.

If that voice was right, then I wouldn't feel so small
without you.

You worry me

I haven't felt you attempting to hurry me along,
nor have I felt the need to
long for your affection,
your regular attention shows a surprisingly
full acception and reflection
of myself.

You're lifting me from the shelf of my creation,
my elation dampened simply by surprise
and shock
that the rock I have been clinging to wasn't
such a burden after all.
In fact it became a tool and
rule of our companionship
which I timidly, yet confidently, accept
to be becoming
a relationship.

Welcome to the Mad House.
(I hope you decide to stay)