Fifty-four.

You don't sleep facing me
and I don't mind anymore.
I've learned the shape of your back well --
where the spine curves,
the edge of your shoulder blade,
the constellations made up of freckles
and stretches of birthmarks.
I said, "It's like trying to put my hands
into something that doesn't exist,"
and I meant it.

Outside, the first thunderstorm of the season
is forming in the clouds above our houses.
You should be here. I've rolled that sentence
around in my mouth so many times
that it's tired of me.

The woman across the hall
thinks that we're in love with each other.
She's seen you come and go,
heard our laughter bounding up the stairs,
noted the frequency of your hands
gracing particular parts of me
(neck, collarbone, hip, ear)
but she doesn't know our story.
There. Lightning illuminating the curtain.

I haven't been afraid for eight days now.
The trick is simple. Pretend
that you have cancer. Pretend
there is a blood clot in your heart
and it's gotten bored with being there
and now it's on the way to your brain.
If the world ends tomorrow,
you might as well have something to show for it.

I think you see me
as Atwood sees oranges. This way,
it makes the most sense.
It's the only explanation I have.
People don't think they're going to grow up
and compare themselves to fruit or poems.
Is it too late to cut the table
in half?

Fifty-three.

Most mornings have you
with blood underneath your nails
and bruises on the sides of your knees.
It's inconvenient, but nothing more.
All is forgotten by the time you've dressed
and are pulling warm sheets from the dryer.

Things are getting hard again.
Chores. Like saying hello,
or sitting still in a car
as you drive two hours southeast.
One of you hates the silence. The other
finds it to be something like healing.
Someday, this disagreement will mess things up.
This disagreement has already started
to mess things up. You look at photographs
and say to your sister,
He doesn't kiss me like that,
and all she can do is pat your hand twice,
like she is tapping for a pulse.

Fifty-two.

I think that I should start building things
for you. A collection of letters,
a cabin in the woods. Just because
you write it down doesn't mean it's true,
but it sure doesn't hurt to try. Sometimes
I wake up with finches in my hair,
sometimes I wake up and they are snakes instead.
It doesn't really matter, tangles are tangles, and
I don't have the right sort of dreams about you.

Fifty-one.

You didn't expect
to meet a room
that had too much space,
floors too smooth,
walls too eggshell.
Yet here it is, hello,
your voice comes back at you
from every corner.

So he doesn't love you.
People walk around
not-loving each other
every day.
There is nothing special about your situation,
which really isn't much of a situation at all,
just you with ugly secrets again
and the click of his fingers
against keys.
You are removed,
wishing for a solid mass to orbit around,
daydreaming of what such a thing
would look like.
You think it would be much like the shape of him,
only with something more
substantial
at the core.
The questions repeat themselves,
melodic and often.
Make up an excuse.
His pills hollow him out, yours
dip you in another layer of concrete.
Write him a postcard,
even if he is on the other side
of the blanket. Have it say,
Wish You Were Here
or
Thinking Of You On Our Vacation.
It doesn't matter if it makes sense
and the exclamation points
are optional.

His hands won't stop moving
and this is meant to prove
a point.
You stop staying over on weeknights
to prove yours.
Switch from coffee to orange juice in the morning.
Draw a cloud the shape of your fist.
Use more license to leave the blood out,
we can say this part is fiction,
put your clothes back on,
kiss goodnight.

Fifty. The day I needed forgiveness and how the grieving process is put into motion.

In a dream,
I was on a train to Boston
and I had forgotten my luggage.
There was a vertical rock wall that felt
safe, and then I was flying
over rooftops and trees,
scared that nothing was holding
my body.

What don't I have enough of?
I don't have enough of my hands
held behind my head,
I don't have enough
dogwood blossoms or cowboy songs,
I don't have
enough restful sleep sessions or
the pleasant sort of confessions.
I don't even own
a passport.

I am sorry
for many of the things that I am,
more sorry for the things
that I am not.
I get panicky
when my phone doesn't ring
by eleven-thirty, and I don't know
how to stare back.
I have too many rough edges,
bones jutting out,
I can't wear the color yellow
and I miss you
all of the time.

Forty-nine. The way you expect me to set you on fire, and how it all comes down to numbers again.

These acts are selfish.
The town is drenched in seawater,
I'm six years past my expiration date,
and you think that you are something
fair. I have had lovers
three time zones away, four inches shorter,
but this is an island that's never forced itself
into my hemisphere before.
You never show me
what you write about us or me
or any relevant plurals.
Approximately five and a half seconds ago,
I lied to you. This table
is an ocean, this table is the state of Texas,
this table is the largest city
that I've ever known. My knees
are not bare for you.

Forty-eight. On recoveries.

Being adored
has not reminded me how to sing.
I could write for days
about the light in my chest
that struggles to meet yours,
flickering like fireflies
or boats wrapped in fog.

An old friend
will be traveling to California soon
and I'm convinced
that it will kill him.
What do you do when home dies?
What polarity becomes lost?

I promised you bicycles
when the streets began blooming.
It's almost time.
My tongue is a net
and my throat is not happy.
This could be a mess.
This could be a victory.

All I know is
my legs are cold and someone
has been rearranging the furniture.
All of this talk
about brightness.
It makes a person
feel misplaced.