Resuscitation

Dear God,

What I am thinking about, right now, is how you breathe salvation into my lips, (because it seems that I've stopped breathing. "Look! Listen! Feel!") down my throat, and push out my lungs. Lip-locked my love! But, did you know, do you know, that sometimes I wonder? I worry - motionless, even as I am, that I am too strong for your gentleness. My want is so thick. Can you push past all this desire into truth? Is that whisper against my face ready to suffocate the hurricane of attention deficit desire that has me ready, some days, (oh, this day, oh, oh, oh) to peel off my soul in search of satisfaction?

If all these desires are, as I suspect, gasps for you, I must be only loose skin of airless lungs. Have you noticed lately, this body you have inherited? All blue, and bones, paper skin?
But, I see you working, a hopeless romantic: watching for moving breast, check pulse, tilt head, counting, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi," breathe. "Live, damn it."
The only way this works, I know, is if you put your lips right against mine. Let nothing between us. Not a wisp, of air. Sealed with kisses of soul pushed down deep, into fingertips and toes.
I'm wondering now though, dear rescuer, as the pins and needles, of oxygenated blood rushing into dry veins, begin, if this is a good time to flutter my eye lashes? To look up, cough, and record the sound of your voice, feel of mouth on mine, and send a, "Thank you." down into your lungs, despite my light-headed disorientation, and all these stars in my eyes?