The speaker describes the final stretch of a person's life, addressed as "you," as memory and language fade. The loved one loses words in the reverse order they were learned, until a book feels as bland and soothing as a glass of milk. Death arrives almost tenderly, charmed by the person's light bones and the smile of the skull beneath the skin. The clock stops, and the eyes look somewhere far off.
The last stanza turns to the speaker, who sounds worn out and unsure: "Was I supposed to run after you? I was tired." The guitar-turned-axe image is odd and open to interpretation, but the double-bladed axe, one edge for kindling and one for icy air, suggests both warmth and cold, making and cutting. The mood is quiet and strangely gentle, with a dry humor that keeps grief from becoming heavy. Beneath it sits exhaustion, and perhaps a hint of guilt.