the dewpoint

if I lean toward you a little
you should be able to feel the weight
of my shape in water
pressing against you; and the slow exchange
of breath for life could be counted
as a net of colored molecules between us -
a transfusion of the elements.
if only we had gills.

I only hate the air conditioning because
it separates us, inflates the gulf
of dry airspace between, the crisp
discretely outlined boundaries
of our present agreement;

let's take a walk outside. there,
in the thickened air,
at least we are connected by humidity
enveloped by the privacy
of transpiration.