I'm afraid to leave,

I'm afraid to go.

I'm afraid that the second I turn around

you'll come chasing after me,

racing after me,

a moth flying back to the light

except

I always hated that metaphor.

Someday I'll have to turn around,

but until then,

it's baby steps

and turning to look back at you every couple minutes

to makes sure you're still there.

Hoping you won't be.

Hoping you'll turn up standing right beside me,

like you're supposed to be.