From the album Two Saviors
This is a phone call someone makes when they realize they are still completely unmoored. The singer is calling an ex not because they want to get back together, but because that person is still the only fixed point in a world that has gotten unrecognizable and possibly dangerous.
Innocence is a light beam, you're doing your thing / With your arm out your window up Highway 9
The past lives in present tense here. That Highway 9 moment is so clear it might have happened this morning, even though the rest of the song confirms it is long gone.
When it's too much to handle, burn me a candle / If you don't have a candle, let me burn on your mind
The request downgrades mid-line from a physical ritual to just being remembered. He knows he does not deserve the candle, so he asks for less.
Heaven is a motel with a telephone seashell / Well, check-out's at eleven, and don't ask for more time
Heaven as a cheap motel with a time limit is maybe the saddest image in the song. Even paradise has an expiration and rules you cannot bend.
I try not to call, but I think I'm being followed / It's been about an hour or so / I hate for you to hear me scared
He apologizes for being scared before he apologizes for calling. The paranoia might be real or it might be an excuse to reach out, but either way, this person is still his emergency contact emotionally.
Did your eyes change? / I remember them blue / Or were they always hazel?
He cannot remember the color of their eyes. That is not about vision, it is about how badly time has scrambled the one thing he thought he knew for sure.
The scariest part is not that he might be followed. It is that after all this time, after everything has blurred and shifted, the love stayed exactly the same while the world around it dissolved.