Silent Distances

We sit like strangers on this old couch,

two bodies held apart by scrolling thumbs,

a space stretching wider than the fabric.

Feet flat on the floor, not quite touching,

quiet like the room is breathing slow and cold.

I want to fill the silence with something—

anything—but the distance tastes like ash,

and I choke on the quiet.

Between us, a gap too small to cross,

but wide enough to feel like absence,

a crack spreading through the afternoon.