What Makes Me Nervous? (A Hovering) #poetry

I once asked the mirror,
“What makes you nervous?”
It answered with a blink.
No, not a blink. A flutter.
A quiver. A shiver down silvered skin.
And I understood nothing, yet everything it didn’t say.

You—yes, you in that corner of my eye—
Why do you fidget when the silence thickens?
Is it the judgment? The tick of clocks that don’t even move anymore?
Or is it that her eyes lingered just a second too long
On your clumsy hands spilling coffee over apology?

He doesn’t speak,
But I feel his knuckles tighten around his glass,
Clear liquid, clear fear—
Yet he smiles that smile that slices bread and trust alike.
She thinks he’s brave.
He knows he’s breaking.

You know this room.
This corner. This air that grows arms to wrap you in unease.
There’s a voice—
Mine? Yours?
Ours?—that asks too many questions in the key of maybe.
Do they like you?
Did you say too much?
Was that laugh too high, too wild, too
…you?

(I watched you breathe once.
Counted the hesitations between each inhale,
And I thought—
This is how anxiety grows wings.
A rhythm gone rogue.)

Do I make you nervous?
I think I do.
Your tongue forgets how to fold words when I’m near.
But maybe that’s not nerves—
Maybe it’s attraction. Or indigestion.
What’s the difference when the stomach churns regardless?

He once told me he gets nervous when he has to say “no.”
Too many years of biting back refusal like it’s gum—
Chew, chew, swallow shame.
His spine turned to sponge around people with strong eyes.
She gets nervous when love knocks
Because she never learned if it brings flowers or fists.

You sit in the auditorium of your mind,
Watching yourself walk onstage with trembling knees.
Everyone is naked.
Except you.
You are clothed in expectations,
Buttons undone by one misstep, one forgotten line.
You remember the line.
But your mouth is a locked door tonight.

My pen gets nervous when the page is too white.
It begs me for stains, for confessions,
For ink that won’t apologize.
Sometimes, I write lies just to calm it down.
I tell it: You are a poet.
Even when the poems hide in corners,
Refusing to come out unless bribed with caffeine and crisis.

She dreams of being watched.
Not seen. Watched.
With the kind of intensity that freezes fire.
And when it happens—
When eyes line up like silent assassins—
Her breath becomes a puzzle no one solves.

You pace,
Measuring the floor in footsteps and doubt.
The ceiling is too low for escape.
The windows laugh at your transparency.
I offer you tea.
You ask for silence instead.

What makes me nervous?
Everything and nothing.
A knock at the door I didn’t expect.
An email with no subject line.
A smile that arrives without context.
The word “fine.”
The phrase “we need to talk.”
The moment before the music starts.
The end of music altogether.

He keeps a list in his wallet.
Things That Make Me Sweat Without Moving.
Top of the list:
“Being asked how I’m doing by someone who actually listens.”
Second:
“Mornings that don’t start with rituals.”
Third:
“Happiness.”
Because joy feels like a borrowed coat,
And he’s never sure how long he gets to wear it.

You whisper into your pillow—
A prayer, a scream, a to-do list.
They all sound the same under moonlight.
Nervousness crawls into dreams,
Turns them upside down
Until flying becomes falling
And kissing becomes choking.

I love when your voice cracks.
It means you’re alive.
It means something matters.
Don’t hide it.
Let it break like dawn over dark landscapes.

She told me once—
It’s not public speaking.
It’s public breathing.
People watching her chest rise and fall like waves
And wondering if she’ll drown mid-sentence.

I held his hand under the table.
He didn’t let go.
His pulse was a drum solo.
He was about to propose to uncertainty.
We called it courage,
But it was just two hearts shivering in sync.

You are nervous.
I see it in the way your eyes dart,
Like birds unsure of sky.
But nervousness is not weakness.
It is proof.
Proof you care,
Proof you exist beyond numbness,
Proof you still feel the edges.

I am nervous, too.
Right now.
As I write this,
Not knowing if you’ll understand the mess I made of rhythm,
Or the way I stitched thoughts like Frankenstein’s monster—
Beautiful, jagged, alive.

She walks into the sea every morning,
Not to cleanse,
But to remind herself:
Even the ocean trembles when it kisses the shore.
Even the tide is nervous,
Returning and retreating,
Over and over,
Without ever saying why.

So ask again—
What makes you nervous?

Maybe the better question is—
What doesn’t?

Or perhaps—
Why not?

#Poetry #SpokenNerves #WhatMakesYouNervous #ExperimentalVerse #StreamOfConsciousness #InnerMonologue #ThreeVoicesOneMind