The Therapist Who Knew My Dreams

The Therapist Who Knew My Dreams

She asked me why I never slept at night,

Why shadows lived beneath my tired eyes,

I told her every dream arrived the same,

A hanging bridge beneath collapsing skies.

She calmly wrote her notes without a pause,

Though something in her face appeared afraid,

The office clock kept skipping forward twice,

Like time itself refused the games we played.

I spoke about a town beside the sea,

A place I’d never visited awake,

Yet every road and doorway felt like home,

Each corner carrying another ache.

She asked me what the people called me there,

I froze before the answer reached my tongue,

Because the name belonged inside her files,

A patient listed dead while still quite young.

The rain outside grew violent on the roof,

The windows shook against the growing storm,

She dropped her pen the second that I said

I recognised the scar upon her arm.

I told her how she died inside my dreams,

A river pulling both of us below,

Her breathing changed the moment that I spoke,

Like buried truths were waking row by row.

She opened up a drawer beside her chair,

Removed a faded photograph with care,

A woman standing next to someone blurred,

The face beside her somehow looked like mine there.

The office lights went dark before she spoke,

The room became unbearably cold,

Then softly through the silence she whispered,

“You keep returning every life we hold.