There's a ghost, ghost in the mezzanine & she's soaked, soaked in a glimmering sort of bone, her bones & I'm blathering for to count all her freckles to kiss her bare ankles, the breath of the bread while it bakes. How I ache, I ache in the pit of me, I awake, awake with this fear in me. How it makes, makes a fool out of me; with its knife how it carves the seeds out of my heart for to plant in the soul for to feast. You are sweet, sweet as a nectarine when you speak, speak softly & gracefully; oh to meet you could quite possibly be the d**h of my dread & the songs in my head would at least find their place and be sung.