I think
that you are interesting
and I would like you to be mine.

I weave a life of possibilities
from the space between us.
Infinite dreams stretch out, stretch on
tie us together
cocooned in a nest of maybes.

Maybe you like Morrissey
and maybe you write poetry
and maybe you’d kiss me
in a cobbled street on a cold night.

Maybe we’ll have sexual tension.
Maybe I’ll write poetry full of sensual metaphors
and maybe I’ll look at you when I read it
and everyone will know.
Maybe I’ll love you,
But you’ll never kiss me
In a cobbled street on a cold night
and maybe that will be the point.

Or maybe,
Maybe we’ll just be friends.
Maybe I’ll lie in your bed
and we’ll watch reruns on Dave
and I’ll feel safe.
Maybe you’ll cook for me,
maybe we’ll have private jokes
and maybe you’ll be the one who’s always there.

Maybe when we meet new people
they’ll think that we’re interesting
and they’ll look at us and fill in the gaps
and maybe they’ll wish that they had a friend like that.

Maybe we’ll hold hands as we walk away
down the cobbled street on a cold night,
a million miles away from here

where I am saying hello,
and hoping
that you think I’m interesting.