we split the records

The two of you split the records on the living room floor on the last Sunday, two piles that started fair and stayed fair, which was the saddest part. Nobody fought for anything. He kept the blue album you bought in Lisbon and you let him, you kept the one you played every New Year and he let you, and the flat got emptier around you in that particular way where the echo arrives before the furniture has even gone.

At the door he hugged you like a full stop. You played your pile all winter, one record a night, and by spring you could listen to any of them without sitting down on the floor.