If my therapist and I aren’t friends

why does she look at me

like we’re sisters?

We dress ourselves in earth

tones, like we planned it,

like our mother

may have ordered us to

for the family Christmas card.

I never mind when she runs

late—she knows

she can count on me.

That’s just how we are,

she and me, not so different

despite our tax brackets.

She must think of me,

sometimes, on her ride home,

or at the grocery store,

when she picks the most perfect,

unbruised apple.

And she must love me,

when glancing past her shoulder,

I could see the key ring

I brought back from my trip to Paris,

a hot pink Eiffel Tower

hung from the lock on her desk.

I just know, each time she turns

those keys, she must think of me,

but Jesus Christ,

what the fuck

does this say about me?

Maya Nordine is a poet living in Chicago, Illinois, where she organizes and co-runs a multi-genre writing workshop called Study Hall. She holds an MFA from Antioch University of Los Angeles.