Perhaps the only thing between us,
it persists, widens, old, cold, thick, greenish forest,
your eyes, which seem to see through everything
like it is summer mist and not a wall
built by clumsy, careful hands,
built clumsily, carefully by my hands,
your eyes, like they are the only pair
made for seeing me, my hands,
which long to reach through everything
like branches reach through overcast
to claim tangrams of sky, your eyes,
which seem to see in mine the longing
of my shaking hands to reach, longing,
reaching long before the thought
of the movement is never born,
always defined by what is not,
by what is only ever thought,
a state, forever staring in peripherals
hoping for it to fold in on itself,
waiting for something new to fill it's place,
coastal states, their borders branches too,
stretching, searching wilderness
for some solid line, some reason for division,
but all there is is everything
and it all makes a picture:
the color of irises,
the space between fingers,
hung at our sides, your eyes
seem to know and not know,
my hands, long to reach but won't go,
rainbow water vapor, the mist,
turning me into sun so severe,
the wall, to me, a wall,
perhaps the only thing.

© windowgirl