I have nothing to add you would conclude in a perfect tone

we were back from groceries and the bag was huge
it was an Ikea tote I recycled three years ago when the apartment
contained me and a wooden tv stand painted in black
I don’t need a tv, I thought, but I want a library and a vintage Persian carpet
a vast one, that silences the vacuum and evens out the cracking floor

we were back from a trip in DC and the house was at rest
the floor was cracking as we tiptoed upstairs with your suitcase
where your nice sweater was folded
delicately
the delicacy of us
we were blissfully unaware of
was also folded within
now the past has been spelled out
as I remember you in this sweater from before, freshly shaved
then the night train would come in three minutes

we were back from our past
ages before we knew each other or learned to get prepared
for once again we would walk back
diminishing as our spines untangle the memory
until we become the noises ourselves.
I would always walk in cold with you, I think,
and mark the winter days as ceremonies.
I have nothing to add you would conclude in a perfect tone.