i am the worst sort of person for what i want to do to you.
the things that i want scare me.
i scare myself.
i want you.
i want you in the worst ways.

i want to dance around in the kitchen with you,
humming a song we both know.
i want the feeling of your hand on my waist,
my head on your chest,
feeling your voice through your shirt.

i want to curl up with you and watch the greatest sausage fest in the history of ever,
the hobbit,
and to laugh with you,
because those movies made me cry,
just like you have.

i want to hand you a mixed cd for your car that is entirely too honest.
i want you to call me at some point to talk about it.
i want you to respond in kind.

i want you to braid my hair,
to gently untangle my many knots with a brush,
and then to run your fingers through it and to tell me that it feels like silk.

i want to stay up way too late sitting next to you,
talking about everything and nothing,
and to fall asleep tucked under your arm.

i want to wake up and to watch the way that you breathe when i’m with you.

i am a dangerous person,
and the things that i want terrify me.

nothing will ever come from my demented fantasies,
so i would like to ask you very politely to leave my head alone,
because you are on my mind all the time
and that’s a dangerous perch for someone such as you,
and it’s even worse for me.