Mothers call the names of their children into the late evening. Their hard voices echo in the streets. We sit on the edge of the bed after sex, in the silence within the silence. Happy words rush to my lips but turn back swiftly. I wish for the past, the days we lived together and loved. Remember hours spent wading in the calm lake? The day you read forever in my palm? You say nothing exists beyond our own breathing in this room, but I know there is a chest of drawers, a bureau and lamp, comfort in the stillness cooled by dusk's final breaths. We are startled to hear your name drift through the window, some woman calling her son home for dinner. Your body reacts: the head lifts, the neck stretches like that of some frightened bird. Should you go to her — as if the voice were your own mother shouting through years of grief? Quickly you pull me back onto the dirty sheets, deep into the rage of your lips and hands and tongue.