My therapist is depressed

Over our fifty minute hours
I’ve gotten the sense—shared disquiet
fills a silent room, interrupted
by a mutually evasive conversation.

Inhaling neglect, politics, existence;
we exhale pain the same way:
a solemn acknowledgement
of the underwhelming everything
and overwhelming nothing of it all.

They know I know they’re also depressed:
charging me less than other patients
while we share movie recommendations—
very sparingly addressing the elephants.
I suppose we’re even friends.
I hope they know I’m here for them.

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