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.