the act of moving-

i wrote a song a long time ago
about stale air and beautiful people.
it was wonderful in a
paper-in-the-atmosphere kind of way,
i-made-something-for-you;
my hands toil because
you are a work in progress.

i love you increasingly as i put you together,
you stand still like a model or
a tree, awaiting my touch--
won't you let me run my cold fingers
along perfect rose lips,
open my mouth against sharp collarbones,
leave dusty fingerprints where our hips lock?
how could you,
lightning-human as you've always been
and i confess;

i think i would like to be electrocuted
by your skin
every day
until i
die.