Forty-three.

There are few things better
than a telephone ringing in the middle of the night
to remind you that you are still alive.
It's only a matter of time
before I don't have any secrets left.
I twist around in my sheets,
calculating the time zones and noting
that I don't remember which one Colorado is in.
Two hours behind and I'm too tired to deny anything.

When he's away, this town
is like every other ocean town.
The waves that lick the shore mean little.
I work, make my appointments, meet strangers,
spell out all of the things
that happen too soon or too late.
Today is an anniversary.
I've never been good at remembering these.
I can tell you that my father died on March 12th,
that my mother had her accident on September 8th,
that he kissed me for the first time on my birthday,
but I will not recognize monthly markings
except for maybe in afterthoughts.
It has little to do with levels of affection,
after all, I've written whole poems
based on the patterns of his shirts
and I'm afraid that the way I miss him sometimes
must be tangible to every stranger that I pass
on the street.

And I can't tell if all of these bold statements
are making me sick or jealous.
Who doesn't want to crawl into stars and be happy?
Sometimes I want to jump off buildings
because I can't fix anything, can't leave the country,
can't set anything on fire.
Nobody should have to be with a person like that.