In my dreams there's a hallway to
A barely living room
TV's on, yellow-flower curtains drawn
And I hate you but I feel so bad for you too

We're in a flat fescue meadow
Browned by the cold
Wearing the clothes of a ghost
The clothes of a ghost

In my dream, you are me
And I am sort of you
And I'm thinking about some of the things that you did
And it sort of feel like abuse

Still I can smell the ocean
Yet we're thousands of miles from any coast
Wearing the clothes of a ghost

In a flat fescue meadow
Frozen dead by the cold
In the, in the clothes of a ghost
In the clothes of a ghost