The chair, the bedside tables,
the TV stand come out

after she does, and then
the bed, each thing leaving
its weight in the rugs,
as if you'd erased these letters

carefully, leaving blanks
sharp as words. As if
I could erase her voice
from this cassette and listen

to her quiet open and close.
Carpet bright below the sills.
A memory of breath
heard beneath the door.

Maybe ghosts
don't want to come back.
Maybe we keep saying
their silences between our words,

the shape of their voices
in ours, in ours
the warmth that haunts
their absent lungs.