Years from now I'll go back to this time
Where I went to a funeral and touched the hands of a dead man
And I'll remember the voice of the man who passed
And I'll remember how the cold of his hand stained my mind with thoughts of distress
I'll remember how he used to be
And I'll remember my final memory
Of a wax-looking figure colder than ice.

Maybe I shouldn't have reached out with my heart in my hand
In hope that my warmth would bring him back
Maybe then I wouldn't have hurt so much
When I touched a dead man's hand