there is a chill in the room, in my fingers. the hum of the water heater rings in low tones from behind the nearest door. the click-click of the dryer answers back, keeping time. i havent heard you sing in years.

i remember your voice and how the wires and miles brought it to me. i remember sleeping with the dead and quiet phone on my cheek. the thrill of the sound of an import engine, the joy in the smell of motor oil. i calculated the hours in between and i calculated the miles as they decreased. i remember the particulars of your speech.

but now ive taken a quiet husband- the books in my room, the knitting on the brown chair. i traded in for a twin bed. we sleep alone, both, on seperate sides of the world just a few blocks apart.