The Help Line

Uninterrupted, wound and wounded,
barely breathing she runs on
without pacing her words and thoughts.
Letting go of redirection,
(I used to try to stop her and she’d shove
my words away.)
I listen.  
I know her lonely story, the crying plot,
though she does not cry.
She says she is grateful;
I am the only person
in the entire world who listens.
She doesn't know, I’m drawing
her chrysanthemums.