And I stood there utterly terrified because I didn’t know where to look and I didn’t know if I should lean in closer, I didn’t know what to do with my other hand or if this was the kind of thing you were supposed to talk about. Spent years and cheap notebooks trying to put the moments together, trying to make them something better, something softer that people could make sense of. Are people unsure what kind of route to take when they want to love me? I want to take trains across city lines just to pull into yards and watch stars and never say what I'm thinking. I know I’m quiet but it’s just that the feelings are festering beneath and my hands don’t know what to do with them, so afraid to damage the sincerity in anything that it’s easier to pretend I’m a bystander even in my own experiences. I was always wondering, always waiting. I am always dividing that level of uncertainty in everything, picking apart the pieces that don’t make sense and bailing out the ones that do - forever giving them their chance to defy me.