The silence evaporates
tiny molecules of your voice float about
as the gunshots deafen our ears
right there in the kitchen floor
i remember those tiles
the grey grout that i always thought was too wide
even as a child
well memory is a funny thing
it holds captive days we wish we would forget
and frees the ones we wish we kept
but maybe in the end
what we get is what we wanted all along
a story to make up for the lack of deliverance
to the womb, to the stone
