The space too wide

We reach at once for the remote,

fingers touch then pull back,

leaving a hollow pressed in the cushion,

a space colder than the room’s still air.

The silence stretches long,

thick as dust motes drifting

in a shaft of afternoon light,

we sit with knees almost touching,

but a gulf wide enough to drown in.

No words fill the crack between us,

just the weight of hands retreating,

and a quiet too heavy to close,

the space too wide,

too full of what we won’t say.