Studying my nose in the mirror
I recall roaming for comfort
My fingers are my ailment- dismay
That you will one day let go of my hand,
Not necessarily for another, (though it has been so)
But from a gradual loosening
My knot of insecurity,
A continual,
Conscious awareness of myself, everything in which I am
A constant state of indecision where I must choose between you and myself.

Staring at the bowl in my hands
I plead,
“Never quite empty never quite full”
A gradual thinning of emotions,
For it is too drastic to comprehend my insignificance to you.
My desperate fingers cup the water from my bowl into yours-
Over
And over
And over.

Yet, our paths are parallel.
Driving forward, instead of past, back, to again.
Growing as flowers do, weeds suffocating one another.
A flourishing of selves.