Fear

An ode to moving on, and growing up.

Day after day, and night after night,
I sat in my head and I painted.
I would paint, and plan, and paint what I planned
until I would undoubtedly change my mind--
and paint over it.

Then I met you.
Suddenly, the faceless picture
lurking in the forefront of my mind,
began to bear your sweet resemblance.
Each conversation and dimpled smile
became a clean stroke of my brush,
and however hard I fought against it,
the colors seemed to carry only your face,
until you and my idea became
undeniably one.

I used to swear up and down
that I was afraid of losing you,
of you never knowing how much I respect you,
and of you walking out of my life
as easily and gracefully as you entered,
Leaving, however unintentionally,
this dusty and maddeningly still life in your wake.
I used to tell myself I was scared to death,
of not being good enough to deserve you,
of never getting the chance to say
the long rehearsed monologue I had prepared.
Instead of waiting patiently for you,
I scribbled furiously, almost ripping the paper,
as if the colored pencils and insecurity
could tear you out of the page into my arms.

But now I think I'm just afraid that winning you
won't really heal the brokenness in my heart,
and I see that there are problems even you can't fix.

So I'm throwing an old tablecloth over this one,
because staring never made anyone fall in love. 
Deep breaths, a brand new canvas.
I pick up my brush.