If I were the sea and you were the land, I think we might meet here. Here the fish are all jumpy, and the sun would set beyond your thin frame instead of mine.
And if I were the sea and you were the land we would press into each other, secede and recede and then take it all back. There would be never ending compromise, giving and taking, pushing and pressing, and we would always be touching like lovers, or boxers, entangled in that broken way that people become too entangled.
Bits of you would tear off into me, sink into me, and bits of me would flood into you. Flow between the islands of your toes, curve into the sheltered bay of your stomach, cover you with a thin film of salt.
Until you couldn’t tell which was actually which. You couldn’t tell mountains from islands or fish soaring through me from pelicans gliding through your sky or valleys from caverns that go deep deep deep into me.
If I were the sea and you were the land we would always be touching like lovers do and when it rained, I would be the deepest darkest of blues, and you would be wet out of empathy.
Your quiet would meet my bustling loud. Your stasis moved by my constant change. And if the wind blew over us, you would just shiver but I would roar.
If I were the sea and you were the land, I think we might meet here, where I’m always calm, and you’re always warm, and the fish like to jump as the sun breaks below your thin frame.
And though we are a thousand other creatures on a thousand other days, here we are only two bodies completely entangled.