it’s possible

these are dangerous thoughts

only to be entertained

in the shadow of 3am

or the fog of a few too many drinks

or perhaps even when trapped

within the labyrinth of your arms

with your breath on my neck

and my heart beating the words

for all to hear

I might love you

and nothing could ever be

quite so pleasantly terrifying

as those words beginning to have meaning

before this it was just four letters one syllable

as tall as an oak as wide as the sky

but feasible

and you were just a boy

with angel hair and technicolor eyes

and I was just a girl

with a Rudolph nose and virgin thighs

and now I'm churning

with doubt and suspicion

of something fearful and found

the sort of thing people write poems about