My hands are cold.
The blood doesn’t settle there;
my fingertips are empty.

My fingertips are empty.
If a butterfly kissed them,
I wouldn’t feel it.

I wouldn’t feel it if
you told me goodbye -
my heart is a scar.

My heart is a scar.
It struggles to beat,
trapped in longing like that.

Trapped in longing like that,
it’s hard to watch you.
You warm my heart.

You warm my heart.
I want you to warm my body as well.
My hands are cold.