I play along to the drum of the quiver in your voice. It 
traces backwards to the night before. The race is on. The 
speech repeats down the line and yet avoids the finer 
details that dare not be recalled. A confession comes up 
to speed with indulgence under your wing, throwing 
caution to the wind and the head-ache you wake up beside. 
Don't come crying back so soon because you didn't think 
things through. There's so little I can do this time. 
Appalled on this call for so long. The receiver slams 
down upon one last request to be face to face. Like that 
will help now. Confession came up to speed, your penance- 
to sit and think. Die to keep me in return. Die to put 
this into words. Die in practiced, prepared lines. Die in 
prayer to pass the time. Nice try.