Anatomy Of A Pause
written by: Amber Lethe
We sit on opposite ends of the couch,
a canyon carved by something unnamed.
You switch the channel, narrating the plot
as though words could shield you.
The TV flickers—borrowed stories
filling the room
because we have stopped telling our own.
Mid-sentence,
about a detective who never solves anything,
you slip it in:
I don’t love you anymore—
a needle between breaths,
too precise to be accidental.
My lungs misfire—
a half inhale, a hesitation,
as if my body wants to argue
though my mouth cannot.
I take the remote gently, quietly,
change the channel back
to the soft romance we watched
on our first date.
My commentary falters,
narrows into silence.
The movie moves syrup-slow,
a tenderness we once wore easily.
On the screen,
two lovers reach for each other
without thinking.
Between us,
a pause opens—
wide enough to see
the shape of what we used to hold.
I wonder how long it’s been growing,
this gulf neither of us named.
The quiet does not break.
It settles,
like dust on a windowsill
no one touches.
And softly,
too late,
I hear myself say,
I know.
- Anatomy Of A Pause - March 7, 2026
- Home (What else do we have?) - November 14, 2025
