They sit in that faded armchair

They sit in that faded armchair,

its cushions sunk like the weight

of years folded into quiet sighs.

His hands fumble for the remote,

a slow battle lost to buttons.

She stops mid-sentence, eyes caught

on a thought slipping away like dusk.

They shrink, not in body but in edges—

softening lines I traced as a child.

Time presses thin around their shoulders,

a silence stretching like worn fabric.

I watch the small cracks and wonder

if they're as fragile as I feel,

or just older,

smaller

than I remembered.