I have letters from you that you wrote in your sleep A map of your heart and a plan of your street And echoes on ice on a blue Winter night from the spokes of your bike in sub-farenheit The fox makes a sound like my heart on the backs where they've laid out the traps Planes filter back through the night, making light work of constellations and maps My opencast heart rewinds back to the start and plays us again, should we ever part