Hanna

You are not
going to live forever,
my dear. Your mother's couch
does not need to be restored.
Cast it out! The basement
full of undoable projects
is your mind. The things
you tell me are your
sickness are part of your charm.
You riff. You play pretty melodies
of fears and jokes. We can
twist over each other for
hours on the phone when you
tell the story of your misery
and we are counterpoint.