September Quiet

[Verse 1]
Your key's on the Goya can by the stove,
a little cold circle I'm scared to move.
It’s 5:15, first Tuesday of September.
The whole apartment holds its breath, remembers
you slamming doors, you singing off-key.

[Chorus]
This quiet is your trophy,
the prize for planting your roots somewhere that isn't me.
This quiet is your trophy, mi cielo,
and it's heavier than I'd ever let you know.

[Verse 2]
I pruned back all your wild branches for years,
‘til you could grow straight past the fire escape.
“I got this, Áma,” is all you said on the phone,
a new kind of woman in your tone.
Now the 7 train just sounds like a ghost.

[Chorus]
This quiet is your trophy,
the prize for planting your roots somewhere that isn't me.
This quiet is your trophy, mi cielo,
and it's heavier than I'd ever let you know.

[Bridge]
My hands still remember the part in your hair,
the three little sections, a braid like a prayer.
Now my hands just sit here, empty and strange.

[Outro]
Your trophy...
So heavy.