She pays each time,
stops and starts the hour herself,
fills it with the death of a brother,
her parents' divorce,
a failing marriage.
An attractive young psychiatrist,
she wants therapy for depression,
deepening.
I take notes,
tell her what else I hear.

Today she studies my impassive face,
her eyes unreadable.
Unlike her usual clinical self-narrative,
she's morose, hesitant,
says words make little difference,
despite what we both believe.
My quiet office darkens.

She turns, reaches out, wanting my touch.
I tell her I want words
to hear what she feels.
Her stifled sobs seem endless.
Words rise in my throat,
but I swallow them.
Taboo holds my hands lifeless,
I suppress what I can't allow.
Time ebbs until she says,
almost gently,
“Like me, you're afraid of intimacy,
you speak in tones of love
without its substance.“
I choose safe silence,
wait for the session to end.
With a resigned smile,
she pays, leaves on time.

Early morning her husband calls,
tells me she took her life,
an overdose, late at night.
She left a note
thanking me for doing my best,
but her time was up.

My mind wanders,
strings together our fifty-minute snapshots,
wonders if my hand in hers
might have illuminated a passage
too dark for words.