You are afraid of falling in love. Afraid to suffer from what you are not used to. Afraid of meeting yourself and forgetting again. Afraid to sacrifice the friendship. Afraid to lose the will to work, the wait for something to change suddenly, afraid of changing the rout to speed the date. 

You are afraid if the rings, if the phone doesn’t ring. Afraid of curiosity, of listening to his name in some other talk. Afraid of making up excuses to get rid of the fear. Afraid of feeling like you are being over watched. Afraid to find out that nudity is still a little thing near an insistent gaze. Not standing being looked with care and devotion. Not even angels or Gog can stand one prayer for more than two hours.
You are afraid of being swallowed like liquid, of being kissed like you were lichen, afraid of being swallowed up as if you were lighter.
You are afraid of falling in love with yourself just now that you had given up on life. Afraid of facing childhood, the bosom that you created to warm your hands when you were little, afraid of being the last one sitting on the table, the last one to go back outside, the last one to cry.
You are afraid of falling in love and not anticipating what can fade, what can disappear. Afraid of stealing from yourself to give to him, of being robbed and them claimed. Afraid that he might be a villain, afraid that he’s a poet, afraid that he’s loving, afraid that he’s a rascal, uncertain of what you really want, maybe all in one man, all a little every day.
You are afraid of the unpredictable that was planned. Afraid that he will bite your lips and taste your blood.
You are afraid of offering the weaker side of your body. The body over the side of weakness. Afraid that he’s the right guy at the wrong time, or the right time for the wrong guy.
Afraid to overcome yourself and having to wait for years until the ‘you’ before and the ‘you’ after can collide again.
Afraid to drop the boredom. After all, you and boredom got along very well. Afraid that he inspire the violence of possession, the violence of selfishness, that you won’t want to share him with anyone else, not even with your past. Afraid you don’t want to be shared with anyone else, besides him.
Afraid that he will be better than your answers, worse than you doubts.
Afraid that he isn’t vulgar to be banished but delightfully rude to call, that he turns and doesn’t sleep, that he wakes up to the sound of your voice.
Afraid of being sucked like pollen, blown like embers, collected like peace. Afraid of being destroyed, annihilated, devastated and not complain about the beauty of the ruins.
Afraid of being anticipated and be out of words. Afraid of not being interesting enough to keep his attention. Afraid of his independence, of his racket, of his easiness of making girl friends.
Afraid that he won’t need you. Afraid of being a joke when talking serious and be taking serious when joking.
afraid of the smell of his pillow. Afraid of the smell of his clothes. Afraid of the smell of the hair. Afraid of not breathing without taking a step back. Afraid that the fear of getting in the fear is bigger than the fear of leaving the fear.
Afraid of not being good in bed, persuasive in the silence, needy in the breathing. Afraid that the joy is concern, contentment is anxiety.
Afraid of not letting your legs off of his.
Afraid of letting your legs off of his.
Afraid of asking him in, afraid of letting him go. Afraid of the shame that comes along with honesty.
Afraid of the perfection that doesn’t matter. Afraid of hurting, injure, harm so you don’t get hurt, wounded, beaten.
Afraid of ruining the happiness for not deserving it.
Afraid of not chewing delight for respect. Afraid of passing by happiness without recognize it. Afraid of the fatigue of looking intelligent when there’s nothing to say.
Afraid of finish what you barely started, of starting what is already finished. Afraid to skip classes and lie about how they were.
Afraid of birthdays without him around, of the bars and the parties with him there, of the socializing without someone to show off to. Afraid of going mad alone. There is nothing worse than running mad by yourself.
You are simply afraid of already being in love. 

- Fabrício Carpinejar -