There is no more than the scent on my sheets, but i'll be on yours, for some time.
Some nights will pass and the universe that existed with us together will be slowly drowned,
out by the busy on-going hum of the people living around us.
we will slowly let the moments that brought us so close unravel,
no more will a vivid quilt exist to keep us warm, just the unfamiliar pieces,
pieces that without time, careful work, and magic, mean nothing.  
We can salvage the mess and design something new and brave,
but like a lost letter re-written, you can try your hardest and never recreate the same meaning.
There is no more than the tire marks in the snow leading you out of my driveway,
Had my tire marks traced yours that day, would I still be writing this?