when i touch you
i am hoping your system has a severe case of mistaken identity:
your heart mistakes itself perhaps for winged things, like hummingbirds,
your body for tender leaves in autumn breezes
when i kiss you
i am hoping breathing becomes
almost the last thing that you think about.
when i hold you,
i am hoping perhaps you feel an infant,
desirous of clinging tenaciously to me: arms, legs, chest, waist
and at once an adult,
longing for more.
when we make love/fuck/have sex
i am hoping physical and emotional become so synonymous
as to negate any difference between them.
i love the way that your eyes shine,
in hues of silver against which the moon and ocean conspire in jealousy.
i love the way that your lips depreciate the value
of things like satin and rose petals, or even velvet bindings
(and defibrillators, when they meet with my own);
i love the way your hands are large and strange and beautiful.
when i hold them,
i am hoping you pretend i’m a violin,
or the next page in your sketchbook: trace me to life.
i dare you.
more than anything, though,
when i am with you
i am hoping our thoughts run similar courses.