(Intro) (A lone, mournful harmonica wail, low and distorted. A heavy, rhythmic foot-stomp begins.) (Verse 1) August is a fever, a heat that doesn't break, The air at the Myrtles is a weight you have to take. Saturated shadows, sweat and ole Lee ander. The halls are full of spirits that like to sit and wander. We laid upon the altar of a white and sheeted bed, In a house that's built for living, but refused to let the dead. (Chorus) And the sheets began to move—not a draft within the room, Just a slow and rhythmic tugging in the silence of a tomb. Cold fingers on the heel, tracing bone beneath the skin, Testing every tether where the breath is wearing thin. You were right there beside me, but we were worlds apart, Two shadows in the dark with a heavy, beating heart. (Verse 2) The bed began to groan under a weight, not ours, A phantom shift of gravity in the early morning hours. A silent shivering, a pull upon the toe, A beggar’s plea for mercy from a century ago. They wanted our heat, to feel the friction of skin, The best of a long lost pulse, where the ghost is sinking in. (Outro) The sun bled through the moss, through the cedar and the glass, Stripping every spirit of the power that they pass. It took the crunch of gravel to finally make us speak, To find the shared haunting of the weary and the weak. Sleeping in the same sweat, divided by a ghost, The ones who come to visit, and the ones who play the host. (End)
