131.

I have a short list of things
that are becoming problematic.

Yesterday, downtown crossing
was on fire, and I nearly called you
because I worry.
And when I worry I imagine things
like you in your high-rise,
flames everywhere,
so while we have not exchanged a word
in two months,
I wanted to know
that you were safe.

Safety, I've learned,
is surprisingly subjective.

Friends give advice. Say
to keep a six-month hourglass
on my windowsill. To take notice
of the damage, because that is where
the light will filter in.

They mean well,
but they have not lived
in my body.

I am expected to learn
how to live without you,
but what scares me is that I am.
I sleep alone and with less
dreams, I have dinner
with coworkers in place of you,
I buy my preferred juice
for the refrigerator
instead of yours.

I miss Devens and the woods,
Maine and the salt,
your gingham shirt
that I wrote a poem about
when we first met
nearly four years
ago. It is irrelevant of course,
but from time to time it clicks
through my head like ticker tape.

Everything can be measured,
now, and I cannot forget
your shape.