He leaned back and asked,
“What’s your greatest fear?”
And all the words dried up in my throat,
choking me.
What could it be, for someone who’s afraid of so much?
What a funny thing to ask.

I leaned back and smirked, asking for a moment to think,
Because this was the sort of thing that merited deliberation.
I was scared to die, scared to live,
Scared to have fun, scared to be sad,
Scared to be with others and scared to be alone,
Scared to say the wrong things, scared to be left behind (again)
Which of these things wouldn’t ruin the conversation, which would
keep the lightheartedness, which would be correct?

And I settled on the most true answer.
“I’m scared to get low again.”
He looked puzzled, knitting his brows together, confused,
“Low?”
How politely, inquisitively asked.
I thought for moment of how to word it:
“Not good times,” I said, a smile quirking at my lips, because no,
that wasn’t humorous, but come on, what a pretty dance around the seriousness.
“Ah.”