The Voice

She hears the ring from half sleep, and reaches out in the direction of sound, fumbling, spilling last night's anesthetic wine, something new she's trying to ease the loneliness. The image of the red soaking into the carpet, there for eternity like a blood stain, Fires her synopses and she grabs then the still ringing phone and a sock to soak the stain. "Hello" she says weakly and a little breathless in her attempts with the sock. "Hello" he deeply and resonantly returns and time stops. His voice is like honey covering and shielding her from the tiresome world Like when his body covered hers in love all those nights and days before he left. And a pleasant tingle in her spine and the sudden inability to breathe Tells her she still loves him, no matter what she says. But he has called to talk to her son and "I've got it" the son says on the other line. "Okay" she says breathlessly strangling now for air and places the phone carefully back in its cradle. The deep honey voice still hums in her mind, and she basks in the afterglow, a secret pleasure, And wishes she could feel at least this good forever.