The Her in Me

I have to touch her.
I have to press my fingers against
her distorted image as she churns
in the water below.  At moments she is clear,
then rippled and moving, giving me glimpses
of the one I am, and the one I alarmingly
want to be.

The thin film separating us
punctures with each touch, revealing
the ecstasy of a place I’ve never known.
I am afraid to wade in past my ankles
knowing I will be pulled in with no return.
In her, my straight hair is wild, and my pristine
white dress is absorbing the colors of sky and ocean.
Her fingertips are coarse against mine, rough
with the adventures never allowed to me.

She lives in the currents, but is never
lost, never trapped in such a vast world.
I stand surrounded by mountains,
wavering clouds looking down
from the sky and up from the water
at my steadfast form.  A wave makes her
shiver beneath my feet.  If I stomp my foot
will I crush her heart, too?  Or
will I splash drops of her spirit
onto my skin to crystalize beneath the sun?

She beckons me with the wave of one finger,
yet I hold my hem just clear of soaking her in.
I move one inch deeper, the cold water searing
my shins before turning them warm.
She is nearer now, and I am in deeper,
wondering when I can say "she is me."