And soon, I'll just be a memory.

On the floral patterns of my sheets,
We would lay together on Lazy Sundays.
And forget time existed,
As our laughs fill the dreaded silence soon to come as you leave through that door again.

But my nerves are residing,
And they're leaving me to believe,
That that'll never happen.
And you'll never leave again.

And my stupidity is settling in as we're laying hand-in-hand,
Staring and smiling at the ceiling,
Like it just cracked a joke,
Like it just made a simple funny.

But this will end,
And I will curl up in those floral sheets,
And grab each and every last flower in them,
And try to pluck their pedals aimlessly.

And I'll lay there and cry silently,
Until the patterns on the ceiling take me away,
Somewhere into deep thought,
And as soon as I'll come to, I'll discover I stopped crying.

And I'll do this for a couple more days,
Until you finally arrive at my doorstep again,
And we'll lay in those tear-soaked floral sheets,
And we'll stare at that worn out, oh-so-farmilliar ceiling.

And the cycle will just repeat itself,
Until you never arrive at my door,
And we'll never lay on those sheets,
Or look at that ceiling.

And I'll never hear your voice again,
Not even on the phone,
Because you'll be long gone,
And I'll be nothing but a memory.