January Morning

I wish for once
I could love somebody 
tangible,
feel their skin on the tips of my fingers
with the delicacy of the blush
on a porcelain doll.
I want to watch them from a distance
like a movie or a play
every sliver of light kissing their 
face
like I'd ache with every bone
in my body to do.
Their conflicts would unfold,
uncorrugate like a thousand paper cranes--
their edges creased and damaged
like the splintering edges of 
unsanded wood
or the rusty blade on the side of a razor.
but we would lay together in their bed
and breathe symphonies of
eloquent silence to the beat of their heart,
the pure desire between us
ripping our words apart 
as we say them
to author a sickening quiet
with the viscosity of honey
and the taste of their skin.
Their hands would tremble as they encompassed my face,
every finger dancing timidly
across the soft skin of my jaw,
and my heart would stop
and my legs would tremble
against the weight 
of the way their soul 
agrees with mine.
Our lips would reach out for each other, desperate
while my skin tingles and tries
to crawl off my bones
to envelop them 
with every last patch 
of the flaming flesh on my body.
And I'd lay my head on their chest,
returning to the tenderness of the volumeless orchestra
that would stir in our bodies
like the winds in a winter-bleached blizzard
passing through the sweetness of a 
January morning,
their eyes pouring words into mine effortlessly
as if their thoughts
were the petals
wilting and falling from a flower
to the frost-bitten grass.
I want to wake them up every
god damned 
beautiful,
gorgeous
morning
with a kiss to their cheek
(and their lips
and their forehead
and their stomach
and their neck)
and we wouldn't say anything at all
because we would want to say,
we have already said
and what we would need to say,
we already know.
So all I can tell with absolute certainty
is that I wish more than anything 
that once
just once
I could love somebody
tangible
Because nothing would feel more like heaven
than feeling their skin on the tips of my fingers
with the delicacy of the blush
on a porcelain doll.