Timeless trinkets scattered about our home,
  pieces of those painted moments we shared.

This paper full of scribbled love; and your pencils,
  worn old with creation...and desire.

Why is it that such things are all I have left of you?
  These burning stars within me.

The paper is the novel you were writing, and promised to let me read.
And the erasers of your pencils; the pink of your breast.

These relics you've left behind,
  proof
    of your soul within mine,
have become my creed,
  my faith.

Because everything is biography.