Between us there is a river of every discernible character.

Sometimes, it is a sheet of undisturbed glass, 

Where I can see you properly,

The words come back and forth with the gentle sway from only a breeze,

 And I pretend it could be like this always.

More often, it is narrow and close, laughter bubbling over the roots, smoothing the boulders over which, until now, I have always stumbled.

At night, when I know myself to be alone, I wonder if the river is too deep for me to step in without freezing or if, more likely,

It is a rivulet that flows into a puddle that can be stepped over before it dries in the sun.

But today, it is none of those things.

Today, the river that is always between us has had enough of "least said, soonest mended."

It is roaring with words, with the silences between words, Pushing against the flotsam I have hastily arranged to keep them in.

Words of a kind I was meant to save, 

Meant to keep wrapped against the rushing water,

Bundled in tight layers for my ears only.

Now they rush forward, breaking what they touch.

I have been warned about this.

I have been told to run to high ground. 

I have been told that the worst, the very worst,

Is to be swept away.

But all I have wanted is on the other side,

And I am no longer listening.