I opened a book of poetry today, and a dried, red scab of a thing fell out. It was a rose petal that I’d stuck between the pages years ago; I don’t know why I placed it in the book.
I’ve been seeing a therapist regularly; well, for two weeks anyway. Two sessions. I’m unsure about her; she seems kind enough, but it all seems so awkward. We’ll see how it goes for another month or so. I don’t know. We talk about current things rather than the past. I don’t want to go there with her just yet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment