i haven’t been sick in weeks. and while i dress. attempt the routines of the morning—the day—he whispers words that make me want to stay inside. that make me want to crawl back under the sheets and hide from the light. say the one about the grape. but i don’t remember all the words. can’t recall any last syllable of how it goes. i love that one. how your voice starts to break when there's something about a moth and a bell.