I sat at my desk, poised.
Calculated.
Pencil in hand, I wrote
each line slow and straight
so that the page would be a page of print
marks of lead so mechanical that the answers had to be right.
I sigh.
Anxious.
In my little town,
my small world was everything.
It was massive and impressive.
Daunting. Terrifying.
Each little breeze would pick me up
and throw me across the room,
leaving me winded.
Breathless.

Now I sit on the couch,
leaning my head against his shoulder.
My words are a scrawl,
a scribbled mix of loopy cursive and hurried print
racing across a notebook
crookedly propped on my knee.
I sigh.
Content.
The city rises and falls,
the steady thump of my heart.
Silent and small in comparison to the rambunctious world
swirling in circles
over and over again.
It is bustling and unnerving.
Promising. Intoxicating.
The papers beneath me flutter as the wind picks up,
but I stand my ground.
Afraid.
But undeterred.