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.