And after knowing you for only a few weeks, we knitted our failures into a heinously tacky quilt. It scratched against our bare skin when we spent the night making love underneath it and kept us warm when we went outside to puff away the day's disappointments. The quilt got bigger everyday because you and I stopped caring about anything that was not each other. You, swallowed up by a sea of shortcomings and I, mummified by a warmth that blinded us from reality, became strangers. Now you are just a patch in the new quilt I am creating from battle wounds. It is thick and vibrant, even more coarse than the last. Underneath it, no one can touch me but myself.