Blanket me. Warm me. Though, leave me. Keep me as you can see me. Though, leave me, as I am open. Hold me in the heart of your yearnings. There is wine sprinkled around, enough to be shed like blood. Do I look wounded, enough? Upon the surface, warmth is more the spots. The clouds in their red, as sunsets to the death of light, as the whirls of blood that encircle. I am for the sharks. I am to be fed to them. More wounds. Less light.
Remain to blanket me. Keep me in heart. Remain to me, in your words. Then, let me loose. Sing of me. Allow ripples to be cast. Then, regret what floats away.
Leave me alone in the warmth. Depart from me, in the cold. There is enough for me, where wine can warm the miseries, where the coldness can alleviate the burns. Upon the surface, a covering wraps my back, while my eyes stare into the deep. I do not love, though I am remembered. I dwell in the coldness, where the ice floats. I roam through another’s heart, where the fires are kept.