in the middle of every quick, yet happy, conversation i feel my my excitement start to sober up into sheer anxiety.
the nostalgia-coated lenses i watch you through start to fog, as the comfort of our past becomes flooded by the internal distrust, and hurt, you left me with.
my carefree laughs are quickly silenced by my mind, obsessing on thoughts, of how can i politely tell you that i need to leave. immediately. like, now. like, i should have left ten minutes ago, actually.
the confidence i had in myself, and the time i put into my look before seeing you, abruptly shifts to insecurities and uncomfortable, repeated, shifts in my stance, as i start to wish i was invisible so you couldn’t see me at all.
there’s an empty, remorseful, feeling the morning after a one night stand.
the moment after i leave your home, i feel that same feel of empty remorse, weighing so heavily on my shoulders–as the welling tears make me feel like i’m about six inches tall.
all of that anxiety, the insecurities, the reminder of the hurt, that walk of shame from your door to my car, and then as i drive home, is, however, not as bad as the thought of never walking through your door again.