Suppose I say the hardest thing to say.
In a famous drawing two black silhouettes
gaze at each other, noses almost touching.
The viewer looks away, then glances back
and sees a different picture, a white chalice,
blank space between the faces seeping forward
to claim her eye. It's the profiles or the cup,
never both at once. The space between
two people—between us—can ebb or surge,
insistent as high tide seizing the shore.
Your fingers graze my chin, your body lowers
to press against my upward-arching body.
What I feel is that thin film of air
between our skins. These are the words that lurk
between the words I say. One day I can't
abide your touch; the next day I can't stand
its absence. Though the inner eye can't hold
two views at once, there's still the nagging sense
that with a blink the picture could change back.
Why should I say what echoes in my silence,
as if you've never seen the chasm between us,
as if, once seen, it could be overlooked.

This poem first appeared in The Paris Review.