The Gap

They sat on the bench, a study in quiet,

each book a wall, a personal space.

A deliberate inch, a careful diet

of distance, leaving no trace.

The cushions dipped, where bodies had been,

a subtle impression, a story half-told.

But the middle was smooth, untouched, serene,

a landscape unwritten, too clean and too cold.

No stray elbow, no accidental knee,

no breath shared, no turning of page.

Just the quiet accord, for all eyes to see,

of two separate worlds on one small stage.

The silent expanse, a question so deep,

of what truths a velvet can keep.