any closer than this

and you would know everything,
each flickering, inconsonant truth, the bumpy burlwood
of me, the deep and knotty reserves, the lines below
the lines. You'd know each agitated syllable,
every small, ruthless detail, the tinny cries I make in the night,
dreaming of a ludicrous escape from the bones of myself.
You'd know the imprecisions, the false starts, the swath
of stormy, sea-churning, furious rebellion,
the bitter, artless farewells, the way I never look back
at the wreckage. Any closer than this,
and you would know everything,
each stubborn, silly lie, each half-pursuit, each early exit,
every shadowy despair and disillusionment, the way
I can take my promises back for good.
Any closer than this…
But you are, aren’t you?
You are just steps away, not even, you are one step, not even,
one fingertip, I think, one single shuddery centimeter.
I can feel the paper-lightness of you, the slimmest graze of you,
a miniscule drop, a sly, unrepentant, liquid contact that hits me
at the solar plexus, dead center, something of you dead center of me,
and it feels impossible, it does, a collision like that,
in this tumbled, dizzy world, it feels impossible
you could get any closer than this. And yet you insist.
You insist.