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?