The gap is insurmountable. I don’t even speak, knowing the space is too thick and vast to carry meaning, all she might hear is some mewling that won’t even carry the conscious fidelity of echo. I lay a hand sometimes, in opportune occasions, upon bared skin betrayed by movement, always so soft and impenetrable. I’m allowed to feel then and the joy of it is dark enough to lose myself inside. I would cry out, to be chastised for my childishness, but it would only bother and I love her too much to dare disturb the wall she’s built.