My back is breaking

The notches in my headboard are for nights I haven't slept through the chill of January drafting between the seams of my panes. I list all the names I'm sick of--the names I'm sick from. It's a list that never has to be written. At the top, a former love who traveled and returned a mute. He looks at me with the disappointment he felt in the pit of his bowels after every time we fucked. He reckons there's something to reconcile, but I've grown accustomed, fond of any look. His hands are rougher, calloused; I stare as he picks dead skin from between his fingers. At the top of alphabetical notches, his name fits like the pillow beneath my head.