“People like that,” he said
with a dismissive wave of his arm,
“are poison to you.”
The good doctor escorted me
down the long, green hallway
hurriedly,
away from visitor
claiming harm irreparable.
“They’re not here for you.”
That’s why, he explained, we had left our
meeting prematurely.

Still as stunned so many
years beyond that devastating day,
knife stuck in my heart
I stagger in dark dreams
haphazardly
toward shifting shadow shape
of you I thought I knew so well.
“I’ll be here for you,”
you say and reach to heal bleeding wound.
Again, I wake too soon.

Waking or sleeping, I
cannot forget clouded words you spoke,
remember why I
still care to understand,
make some sense
of confusing nonsense
that echoes like the hourly chime.
Time still chasing me,
I am unable to walk away
from what is killing me.

Do people like you think
of people like me as time and words
kill slowly step by step
down life’s long, echoing corridor?