There were still tears where those came from, she discovered.
The sound of silence found them every time.

She’d thought all day this time she had recovered
but evening lets the pushed-down memories climb
the barriers she had placed on broken dreams.

The memories batter dearly-bought defences
and nothing stays as lucid as it seems
in sessions with her therapist.

She winces
as the songs she’s paid for, hoping to forget,
play back as payback for forgotten deeds.

The deeds not done cause her the most regret
while the seeds of silence grow nostalgic weeds
in what she calls her essence.

Quiet, she waits
as she always has, until it is too late.