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.