Don't Make Me Sound Better

The screen turns green. You say, “Try one more.” We hung two quilts across the bookcase, pushed the desk into the rug. You set the headset by my jawline, left some water by my thumb. The screen gives me another sentence: “The parcel should arrive on Thursday.” I lose the final word to coughing. You move the cursor back. Line one hundred forty-seven: “A narrow road runs past the mill.” The level drops below the marker. I say it twice and miss it still. You say, “We’ll keep the clean ones. Let the software do the rest.” But every little imperfection is a place where I still exist. Don’t make me sound better when my voice has left this room. Leave the breath before “I love you.” Leave me laughing out of tune. Don’t make me sound sweeter than the woman that you know. Keep the way I say, “You’re impossible.” That is how you’ll know. The form suggests a name and greeting, something tender, something brief. You type, “I love you. Call me anytime.” I add the things beneath: “Your keys are in the fruit bowl.” “That shirt was never navy blue.” “Turn the small pan down before it catches.” “No, I am not done talking to you.” You ask me why I need complaints when storage space is running low. I say love was never just the sentence; it was how we let each other know. If you’re keeping me for later, keep the parts that made you sigh. Anyone can save a farewell. Save the words we lived inside. Don’t make me sound better when the screen begins to speak. Keep the sharp edge on “I told you.” Keep my tired laugh uneven. Don’t make me sound patient. You know I never learned to wait. Save “Your keys are in the fruit bowl.” Save the breath before “I’m late.” The sample says, “I love you,” in a voice with all my shape. Every consonant lands cleanly. Not one breath arrives too late. You whisper, “It sounds like before.” I hear a stranger being brave. So I open one blank message and lean closer to the wave: “You left the freezer open again.” You laugh across the final word. The level flashes red for clipping. It is the truest thing I’ve heard. You reach to mark the take for clearing. I put my hand across the key. The clean voice could belong to anyone. This ruined one belongs to me. Don’t make me sound better when the silence needs my name. Keep the breath before “I love you.” Keep your laughter in the frame. Don’t make me sound braver. Let me still complain and tease. The clean voice can say anything. This one sounds like me. “You left the freezer open again.” We laugh before the line is done. The screen asks, “Save or discard?” I press Keep.