Limbo

This is not about the time she met you
in the hospital 
housed in a 19th century cottage 
on the street lined with trees 
and private school girls.

This is not about you 
welcoming a room of curios,
bibs and bobs; mental patients 
huddled in the room 
with the bay window.

This is not about your magnetism,
a smile curving across your face 
like a country road calling her home,
a voice velvet with kindness
and rumbles of drought-breaking rain.

This is about therapy ending 
and blaming myself.
It’s about saying goodbye,
feathers greased with guilt.
It’s the canyon 
as large as your absence,
demanding an acrobat’s leap
from padded cell to urban sprawl.

This is about me, orphan again,
hollowed out, black hole heart 
that could drain galaxies 
sucking for love.

It’s me, no longer her, 
not quite eagle strong 
wishing for one more day 
of you catching the fall.