the voice, any voice. there, somewhere in the throat. i had written it. it came out in spools, it came out in coughing. i had dreamt it in a sunlit room. the curtains were sheer, i could see the morning. diffuse and bright. she was there. she was leaving. she had turned away from the curtain, it left her fingers and the voice left me. i still had something to say. i coughed instead, writing it down. she couldn’t understand, she left but brought back a glass of water. it smashed in my hand. the pieces caught the sun, made a prism of the quilt. there at her thigh, a flank of muscle tense, neither coming nor going. the door was still open, i had stopped breathing, i wanted nothing to chance. i was committed and the afternoon was too early, a mugginess, a certain thick quality. her voice, any voice. spare change on the dresser, a notebook, a pen. a book of matches torn to the last.