I worry sometimes. That I'm too much. That I'm too sane. That I'm too available. That I'm overstaying my welcome. He doesn't do anything to make me feel that way, but I still feel it; The sickly sense that my luck has finally run out. I worry that he'll fall out of love with me, rapidly and without warning. That I'll be back to singing along to songs of heartbreak before I know it. That one day he'll look at me and think "What was it that I liked about her again?" I worry that I've lost him, by getting too comfortable, by settling into a routine. And I clamor to reclaim him, without having lost my grip in the first place. It makes me feel desperate, needy, unstable.
I worry that I've become too attached, too dependent. I search for signs that he's reached saturation point with me, dig through our conversations for hints that he just can't take another minute of listening to me laugh, or complain, or just plain talk. I worry that I'm suffocating him, and I back off, trying to maintain the invisible balance between detached and present. I worry that I love him too much, that I love him more. I worry that I plan too much for the future without having the authority to do so. I worry about pushing him, expecting and assuming too much about where we stand. Even after he insisted I share his dresser drawers, I put off marrying our garments until I was absolutely sure that it wouldn't scare him.
I worry that I'm too negative sometimes. So I check my comments, hold inside gripes and fears and idiosyncrasies that I fear will make him see me in a less-than-flattering light. I worry that I'm not enough. I worry that I'm a flash in the pan, that my time with him is limited. And I search for hints that I'm a fixture. I worry that I'm dancing on the edge of scaring him. With everything: With my tampons beneath his sink, with my razor in his shower, with my underwear next to his, with my love. It makes me feel clingy, overbearing.
I worry that it's a trick, that him loving me is a farce. That the big punchline will finally be revealed when I've finally given myself over to him completely. I worry that I've already given more than I should have.
I worry that my insecurity is going to get in the way. That worrying and wondering and thinking and seeking are going to, one day, force him away. I worry that my past will never leave me, that I'll forever battle fear of desertion and doubt.
Because no matter how good he is to me; no matter how much he reassures me, how many kisses he plants on my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth; no matter how many times I hear I love you, I still worry.