and maybe you don't want me here.
and maybe I don't want you to want me here
and maybe I want you to want me so much that your heart hiccups

and maybe I drink to summon the courage to say it
and maybe I drink to find it

and maybe I loved you
and maybe I still do

and maybe I don't want you to see me broken
and maybe I want you to feel the shattered glass of my fingertips

and maybe we're doomed
and maybe we're destined

and maybe last night was different
and maybe we'll never change

and maybe we love like cancer

and maybe we walk like Egyptians

and maybe we just need time
and maybe we've had enough for tonight

and maybe we make bonfires on bunk beds

and maybe you turned your back to me
and maybe I left

and maybe you love the hawk with brown tipped wings

and maybe common sense isn't so common

and maybe we're newcomers
and maybe we never got there

and maybe those weren't tears, but stray raindrops

and maybe all my words are lyrical
and maybe my pen is tapping out my heartbeat

and maybe I watch you watch me

and maybe we jive like honey bees
and maybe I dream of daffodils and popcorn

and maybe we've lost faith in God and gravity and poetry

and maybe I ride my bike down the narrow streets downtown
and maybe I sunbathe on park benches
and maybe I fell from my tree house

and maybe I flew
and maybe our hands don't fit quite right
and maybe I tried to recreate snowflakes

and maybe I dance to the songs you hate
and maybe you know every word from my favorite poem

and maybe I cry when I think too much
and maybe I smile at every hair on your body

and maybe I loved you
then again, maybe not.