I lie with sheets, but ne'er entwined,
upon them like a grave--
the heat that rises from my heart
is far too warm to save.
It catches in the rafters,
with dust and shadowed wood;
I find I can't collect it
as I feel a dreamer should.
I let it drift away instead,
balloon without a string--
My heart grows cold atop these sheets
and I can't do a thing.
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