Don't let me go, even when I tell you to, don't let me go.

Things I dream about at night and call fairy tales by day. Running back to that laundry basket to see if I can find the candy you found in the treasure hunt. Plunging under water for a second time to see if I can catch a glimpse of the pretty rocks in the mud between my toes. Lifting the kite into the air one more time to see if it will fly like you said it would. You convince me so well. You make me want to believe in things I've cast away as naive and even dangerous. You have things because you weren't afraid to see their potential before they were in bloom. "Your faith has saved you."
***

I'm tripping, stumbling over misconceptions and embarassment, over predispositions and preconceptions, over unreal expectations and tantalizing self-pity.
I am afraid of what I will see if I look at You. I turn around and hide my face in my hands and cry out for you to show yourself. I stubbornly insist for my own idea of you to appear and, consequently, my own idea of me.
Don't let me keep myself from you. Don't let me go. These water wings won't do, these stoppers don't stop the water from flooding in and swallowing me whole. Only your arm under my round immature belly can hold me up. And left to myself I know I would choose anything over you. "Ashamed I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers."
But don't let me go.