The Middle Cushion

We watched a movie neither of us watched.

The plot kept going. We did not.

Between us, six inches of upholstery

held everything we'd got

and couldn't say. A crumb

from something neither of us ate

sat in the cushion's crease—

small, deliberate, almost ornate

in how it stayed. I noticed the seam,

slightly pilled, a little worn.

Neutral territory. The kind of border

a country draws when it's too torn

to fight or to forgive.

Your hand was on your knee.

My hand was on mine. The screen

threw light the way a river throws debris

against two banks that never touch.

I kept thinking if I moved,

even half an inch, you'd feel it—

something proved

or something broken. So I sat.

You sat. The credits scrolled.

We let the room go dark around us,

the couch getting cold.