Velvet Distance

Velvet Distance

We measure the gap in fabrics—

not miles, not days,

But the way silence feels

when it remembers to be soft.

Between your hello and my reply

a nap forms, fine as dusk

on a theater curtain.

I touch it with careful hands.

I mail you small textures:

a strip of midnight from my sleeve,

the felted hum of late trains,

the inside of a glove that kept my name warm.

Your letters arrive with corners smoothed,

as if the road tucked them in.

I read them like lamplight—

slow, forgiving, out loud to the plants.

Some distances are sandpaper.

Our learned manners,

stops at yellow lights,

Let's finish speaking.

Even so, there are days it thickens—

velvet too heavy for the rod,

folds upon folds

until the room becomes a hush.

I don’t cut it. I pleat it back,

pin it with chores and soups,

let laughter steam the pile

until it lies down tame.

When we meet, it doesn’t vanish.

It turns into a sleeve at my elbow,

the corner of a booth,

the dark between notes in a song.

We keep it clean,

brush it with patience,

store it where hands can find it—

a space that’s kind to cross.

So when the world pulls it closed,

We know the seam,

We know the pull,

And we know how to part it, gently.