ringing in my ears

again at two in the morning, i answer the phone. his voice wanders through the miles. through the thickheaded results of too much alcohol. even blinking against the dark makes me nauseous. open the window. hold the corner of the sheet between my fingers and fight the desire to bite down on something hard. he’s tired and alone. together we are restless. a conversation of languor. i’m alone, he sighs. and i ring empty with the inability to soothe this ache. without a salve for wounds i’ll never see or know or claim as my own. sometimes words are always never enough – especially when they are all we have on which to rely. against the tones of his crying, these familiar acts of absolution, i offer my love. until the words lose all relation to sense or adequate definition. like a lie. like truth. until he’s righted, i say the words over and over again.