Matei meets me in the middle
of sentences born of silence,
of reflection, of diseased riddles
and eviscerating verbal violence.
We speak of death and archetypes,
of alchemy and the divine,
of love grown sickly and ripe,
no longer sweet and so sublime.
Confined within our fifty minutes
we pirouette through topics
and nothing seems to be off-limits,
excepting a familiar suffix.
Psychotherapy is like a room
half-glimpsed through an open womb.