She is the ghost in his thoughts,
A nightmare so blissful it is mistaken,
For a sentiment of happiness.

She is the ghost in his thoughts,
For in her wake, the consequence lie,
In an unmade bed of thieves,
Slaughterer to his fragmented happiness.

She is the ghost in his thoughts,
Standing on the brink of such spiralling sorrow.
He sees her in the street,
He looks for her in all the people he meets.
-

For he is made of demons and of angels, they dance in his veins. Menacingly pattering to the sound of her tired voice.