By hilary west
In the whisper of autumn leaves
I still hear her voice.
In the brush of waves on the shore
I feel her near to me.
"You must let go," says the analyst.
Her slender form like a quivering aspen:
The feel next to my skin of such soft flesh.
The Doctor is about thirty,
Good looking and very understanding.
"I am letting go Doctor."
"Good. Brush the past away,
Give in to the present,
Make way for the future."
It is then I notice her hand,
Beautifully manicured, long slender fingers
Adorned by a ring glittering brightly.
But it is now I see.
I know she will be mine today.
For it is my next appointment
And there is no ring on the third finger.
It would seem I am cured.