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.
The first sentence is a line from the book ‘No Object’ by Natalie Shapero.