It might be that in 4 months
I won't even remember the way
You silently shook with laughter
Or the way you looked
When you took off your glasses
To clean them on your shirt
The way you absent mindedly made music
Wherever you were
Whether by tapping on your desk or with
The old guitar that your dad gave you
How you always had
Some obscure reference
To relate to anything and everything
And how you were unequivocally kind

It might be that in 4 months
Your face has stopped
Making cameo appearances
In all my dreams
And the songs on my iPod
Have stopped being about you

As painful as it is  
To look for your face in every crowd
I think I would be lost
Without that last bit of hope
And I'm not quite ready
To let go of that yet