estrangement

I come to a fork in the road.
I seem to end up here every four years or so.
I know you're waiting at the end, if I choose the right one.
I've chosen that one before.
What am I supposed to do, really?
You left me last time. You'd probably leave again.
But I can't help thinking about it.
I know it's hard on you. It's hard for me, too, to know what I want and be unable to reach for it.
Because you're afraid, and so am I.

But you tell me you aren't.
You aren't scared anymore.