That grey film that
exists between us
is the color that
stone soup might be

or it is a veneer of
granite slowly washing
in a stream, drifting
into place between

our bare shoulders.
Neither of us pushes
against it because
we wanted to be

close and divided.
Actually, we ignore
it as if we could still
feel warmth through

what is overcast but
then sometimes the
layer grows thin,
stretching celluloid

—we see patchy light,
the outline of your hip
the small bones of my
wrist, the creases

at the bend of your
elbow all coming into
view like hidden threads
that hold beads to leather.

Then the film flickers, the
skin wanes, and we look
away to the clouds as if
they could be a bridge

or at least become a
transition between
shades of grey.