What will we do with all these words when we die?
Will they spend like currency in our afterlife?
Always waiting on a world that will never come
Always standing in line
Sinking feelings, inexplicably
But always leaning towards some sort of light
So where are we going
And how does it feel where we are now
With all our sentimental songs siphoning out?
What will we do with all the time we'll have once we die?
Will we trade our memories,
Change all the endings,
Revise what was each other's lives?
I'll haunt the house you dreamed about
But you never saw the inside
I'll sing in your voice
And you could sing in mine
So where are we going
And how does it feel where we are now
With all our faculties like rooms emptying out?
With the tethering stress of the breath in our lungs
And the sounds of the women and the men
And the endless undone-ness of everyone
And this sense that nothing is over and nothing's begun yet.