When I look at you, afar, who feels the prick of my eyes,
Who traces every fracture of my lines, but stays apart;
When you look at me, who, on your canvas, breaks up the lines
To get as close to you as you would let me with your brush;
When your face is squirming in the almost comic grimace
Of choking; when my voice is burning through the crack of lips
In the earthquake of my mouth, in drying pieces of breath --
I know then: yours is water, mine is air -- the world is split.