5 hours later

we talk while i take a bath and maybe it's the steam--the alcohol--but i feel wholly better. like things are different. like i could turn the lights out and really sleep. but it's late and the sounds coming out of my mouth don't really even sound like words any more. i need to go to bed, i plead. and he begs me not to hang up the line. there's nothing more to say. or that i want to say. all i want is to crawl under the sheets and dream. and he says, turn your body over and place your hand on the space between your lowest rib and it makes me want to cry. but i don't. there's no space for that. there's nothing telling me that now is the time to fall into a million pieces. but soon. maybe. soon. because this isn't about me, at all.