Tell my mom if i die,

I haven't talked to her, the top of the hill, look I made it, wondering when I can drive out, asking if it all flew over your head. 

Cruising 5 ain't the way to go, heads cruising like 50, in a car I can watch the coast go by, down between the lines hoping work starts up soon,

Wondering just how much of it I could bring up in your presence, my wonder, it wonders just how much shes picking up.

Never one to talk more it's more it the subtly of the times we've exsisted in the same present, because I've always been here one moment gone the next, frightfully I'm afraid at times I'm all too quiet, and all too often it's hard to notice both my entry and my exit, I hate it being far to quiet.

Tearing up wondering just how easily I fly over your head, and if you've noticed, driving down to see you, just hoping at least its just you didn't pick it up, choking hoping it's not that you won't.