The speaker looks back at a moment of closeness with someone, possibly a lover, and measures how far apart they have drifted. The opening describes a feeling that arrives without warning, "beyond language," a silent shift behind the eyes. Then comes a memory: walking arm in arm at dawn, trees seeming to breathe, time stretching out, everything gentle.
Two seasons later, nostalgia has sharpened into "that strange blade," a weapon that leaves no mark except in how the speaker holds themselves, glazed and staring at ghosts, like a cat gazing into empty space. The poem then reverses its opening phrase, "from liquid to viscous," as if feeling has thickened and slowed. The speaker calms things down: the cat isn't vicious, the blade isn't dangerous. Pain is quiet here.
The title, "Parallax," explains the ending. Two viewpoints show the same thing differently, and now each person sees their own version. The mood is wistful, muted, and resigned.