The unnamed thing 

exists.

The thing we named

does not.

Or rather, it fell apart.

Blood is not louder than 

the sound of rain

on the window

waking up sleeping

children.

Still, I do not prefer the silence.

Just quiet words, quiet truths.

A reminder of something once named

is a reminder of the unknown.

A reminder of a soul who lived

is a reminder of a smile 

erased.