How few things we’ll remember as we enter our graves.
Will you remember the streetlights dancing?
When I tell you of broken homes and withered bones,
Will you love me anyway?

When you found my crusted eyes,
you made grace of what was grave.
I’ve practiced concealing my vile thoughts,
Carrying them to the grave.
But when my sordid mind surfaces,
When all that is impure surges—
Will you love me anyway?

When I tell you of broken homes and withered bones,
Will you turn away?
For fear you might drift too far,
Sailing down this way.

I know many things will be forgotten at our graves,
So let us embrace our entirety—
While we are here today.