Waves of wrinkled fabric between me and her might as well be a vast ocean,
Storms of worn fluorescent light from a cracked bathroom door
Echo cracks or thunder that sounds like tears trying to be quiet in vain,
Across that depth, she’s the kind of calm that only comes in the deep center of the torrent, with the world coming apart around it,
I could sail to her, with a hand, with a word, and I might not be bashed against the cliff face,
But then I would have to face her, and acknowledge that no body can be that forcibly still without being torn apart by blunt force winds,
And the true cause might not simply be hot and cold winds from her,
But currents that run just deep enough between us to still be passable if someone, anyone, were strong enough to brave them.