My clearest memory of you,
is one you weren't even in,
I found an atlas in your glovebox,
and pondered where you happened to begin.
And finally towards the end,
you stumbled in and admitted,
your future was in those pages,
so you tore it from my hands
covered it in oil, and set it all aflame,
And as we warmed our hands,
above the remains of my garage,
I realized that nothing could be,
the same again.
My dreams were on those maps,
they faded when the pages crumbled
like the written diaries of lover's lost desires,
They burned when the lover's touched,
they ended when only the ash remained.