it's a word I didn't know I knew

Caution. What is caution? He said, "Don't you feel weird getting attached when you also feel like I'll suddenly realize I made a mistake and never see you again?" And yeah, I do, but that's my caution. He worries I'll leave but his type of attachment may differ. I want him with me all the time. I want to lay on his chest and close my eyes and feel him breathe beneath me.
This is the ocean.
There are tides coming in. There's an undertow. There's the ever-present reality that if you go too far then you could drown. There are tides going out, stranding shells and rocks and things that would rather stay hidden by the water. There's salty hair and the sand still found months later from that one day.
And the sun.
I remember laying in the sun until I felt like I was boiling. There was no choice; either die or jump into the water. So black and white. So either/or. I have softened my decisions, but the driving force remains: this or that. Here or there. Now or later. There is no and. There is no nor. There is no both.
I was someone who would jump right in. I didn't like the gradual adjustment. I'd rather get the shock over with all at once, dip my head right under, open my eyes and let the water burn me. Once it was done, it was over. There was no long and drawn-out procedure. Just finished.
I am not like that as much anymore. I get scared now. I take my time. Not always, of course; sometimes it starts as one and ends up as another. Sometimes I think I have it all figured out and then I realize I'm being pulled under and I don't know where my beach blanket is and I can't see my spot on the sand anymore and my feet aren't touching anything just cutting water with my legs like scissors through paper. Don't panic. Don't rush. Take deep breaths. Let the water rock you back to shore.
Ride it in, right?
Caution. What is caution? All I know is experience. The whole point of caution is not to. The whole point of caution is to wait.
I have always been so impatient.