When I said you could think of me as your therapist,
I meant, could you leave the room and I’ll make notes?
Allow me to turn
Watching you leave
Into a profession.
Mind you, I’m pretty good at this job.
There’s the creaking of the floor panels
Under your converse,
The jingle jangle of car keys
In your back pocket,
And the death-like glow of light bulbs
Seeping through the door hinges
Of when you exit.
But you didn’t notice any of this.
You hardly broke a sweat.
Meanwhile,
On the other side of the room,
My tears are stars
And the sound of your departure
Has me painting
Galaxies
On my cheeks,
Turning my chest into steel
Until you’ve convinced yourself
That God locked this heart in a cage.
Don’t worry (I know you don’t),
I am built for this,
For your soapy self
Slipping in and out of my life.
And it will happen again.
See?
I have my notepad with lists of
Heartbreaking theories and
Scientifically correct ways
Of sending you off.
And when I will,
Know that it’s just
What every good therapist does.