I'm underwater and you're not
and I try with every arrow I've got
to hit you and send you my message
but the current pulls me under once again.
We'll always be on separate planes,
Me by kayaks, you by trains.
We try to connect to each other
but pass in a flurry, a flutter, gone.
My screaming ambles into your vision as bubbles,
your solidarity barely piercing the ripples as a star.
Our communication will always be broken
because if I'm not underwater, you are.
Maybe one of us will drown, we think
we're not supposed to know yet.
In the car we are silent, because
when we talk, one of us is always wet.
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