If I die young.

There's still a song I can't sing.

I can't write the melody without December.

Summer has left us a cold front residue 

with dead leaves by which to remember.

My hands and feet are always cold.

I shiver, not from cold, but from heat.

Where did it come from and where will it go?

Will my missing piece ever be complete?

The heat melted the ice from the mirror, 

I took another look before it was forever gone.

I fought the fog, the water drops, the bubbles to see

everything I had once thought was my written song.

My eyes couldn't open, I could feel my lips sewn.

I smelt a light, familiar, musky wisp of loneliness.
The big hand I once held left me long ago,
so long that I can find the words to condemn address.

There lies the quiet mouse, too afraid to whisper
the truth behind the lies that lie behind the wind.
The waves, the rain, the water is to cleanse
everything within sunlight's glint.

If I die young, take my heart and sell it for a dollar,
for it won't matter much too much later.
If I die young, the equation will finally equate,
with tears of joy that can finally dictate.