Cushion Gap

The dust motes swim

in the yellow light

from the lamp I never dim,

just the low drone of the TV.

My phone screen a blue scar

on my face, yours too.

We sit so close, and yet so far,

this gap between us, new

and old, a worn-out velvet groove.

A half-eaten bag of chips

sits like a witness. We don't move.

Our knees don't touch. My lips

stay shut. The remote, a dead weight,

between us, untouched.

This quiet. This fate.

Everything hushed.