Et toc

I have a gost in my closet, or should I say many? He likes bitter-sweet memories and tap-dances them to life, and when I go to sleep at night he blows his twirling smoke into my head and makes me laugh. He goes into the scariest places and whispers threats to the monsters in a sing-song voice as they gather in a corner and whimper. Shall I paint a smile on your face? What colour would you like?
And he dances in the light, catching the rythm of my heart for a waltz around the room, taking me with him. And suddenly the door closes but I can still hear the music in my head, setting it on my eratic heart. A thin trail of smoke rises up from the dark, drawing our secrets for all to see before I blow on them lest someone might be watching, and what would people say? If you see any sense in this, you might be as nuts as me.