You are sitting where the light hits the armrest

You are sitting where the light hits the armrest.

I am over here, by the lamp.

Between us is a valley in the corduroy,

a place where the springs have tired out.

A single blonde hair from your sweater

is resting on the middle cushion.

It hasn't moved for twenty minutes.

I could reach out and brush it away,

but that would mean crossing the divide,

and neither of us wants to be the one

to slide down into the center.