His fingers are long and skinny and torn up just like mine
My uncle tom called them our alien fingers
My grandpa always said we should learn how to play piano
I learned the saxophone and he learned trumpet
Whatever souls are made out of, his and I are the same.

My mouth just as foul outside of church as his
Our Sunday school teacher used to yell at us for freak
His mom always said we'd be judged for saying the Lord's name in vain
I learned self-control and he learned fear of God.
Whatever souls are made out of, his and I are the same.

His knees and elbows torn and bloody just like mine
My grandma used to say we had more scabs than skin
My mom threatened to make us pay for the band-aids
I learned not to scrape myself up and he learned to make money
Whatever souls are made out of, his and I are the same

made of horror stories told in sunday school
to scare the two of us out of tipping our chairs back
made of fourth of july picnic tents and slip n slides
made of almost puking on the merri-go-round
and the time I stepped on a bee
or the time my sister broke her arm falling out of a swing
made of almost burning our feet on the hot asphalt
made of hide and seek in the corn stalks and
contests for how far we could throw chunks of concrete
made of my grandpa's candy jar in his office
and whatever souls are made out of, his and mine were the same

Whatever souls are made out of
His and mine were born of the same
My mother warned me against heartbreak
but how do you heal from losing a friend