By Friia Astrup

Broken glass on a freshly tiled floor,

Stitches on a cut, never seen before.

The pain of their choices, 

The heat of their voices,

 

Burning a hole in the door, 

A suffocating fire, tearing through the room and wanting more.

 

They attempt to reconcile,

For at least a little while.

But the chasm that exists between them,

Couldn’t be healed with any material item.

 

As they attempt to gather,

They find they would rather

Pretend not to remember,

The hearth in their home,

The fires they have outgrown.