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.