Hospital Collection: Encounter

With the thrill of the occult
I look up from the eclectic pages
of my horror book
to see - Brooke.

She calls my name
and we turn,
awkward in the sunlight
as shadows move into our mouths.

I'd prefer to keep her undisturbed,
wrapped in the blue hospital gown
of my memories,
buried with the decay and void
and the imprint of madness
on my skin.

The patients of the psych ward
are to remain behind locked doors
like a half-forgotten dream,
never to resurface.

She asks me how I've been
since we've been out of hospital.
In hollow tones I tell her I'm
on fluoxetine and seroquel
with a new psychiatrist
and a fresh diagnosis.

I ask her how she is,
remembering the uneasy
folds of our paper-thin friendship,
desperate for anyone to listen
in the dark corners
of the corridors.

She says that she's surviving,
that she's in recovery
and sees her case manager
every other week.

We try to smile, but
it's too painful.
So we touch hands
and minds,
curl our lips
and leave.