You may pass by all that I've left behind, 
fingertips barely grazing by old clothes in the closet, 
footsteps falling on paper strewn everywhere like carpet, 
every move rearranging the words I've written for you.

Where those inked pages move will never truly matter, 
the stories contained on each one are already carved into you, 
sculpted around the delicate tissues lining your distant heart, 
a new verse to discover with every rhythm guiding your pulse.

You remain inside me in the same absolute way, 
whether a tease of your essence calls just beneath the skin
or my entire form has spilled across the bed, 
unable to come to life without your body near mine.

All that anyone will know of me in time will be tangled with you, 
the tiny moments that are merely fragments when gleaned alone, 
those stills that only hold meaning for us
but make an entire tapestry when pieced together.

You may pass by all that remains of me one day, 
the keepsakes and trinkets that cannot be buried in the earth
or rise and evaporate into the atmosphere, 
fingertips trailing surfaces I once knew and touched, 
trying to feel what pieces of myself I left for you to remember again.

How they're arranged will never truly matter, 
the flickering images and flooding sensations 
contained within each one have already fused with you, 
shaped around the intangible energies thrumming 
through and sewing your soul, 
a new verse unearthed every time my name 
is painted across your dreams.

You'll remain inside me in the same absolute way, 
whether clinging to a faint shimmer of your essence 
or my entire being becomes a stretching sky
that will not darken until you are safe.

All that anyone should ever know of me will be connected with you, 
the captured moments that are just brief intimate seconds,
snapshots we can translate the meanings to alone or assembled as one.

When you pass by all that stays behind, 
I've left everything you need to find 
so you'll know how to remember me again.