I am soaked in you,
Like an old white rag drenched in murky waters.
I wring myself,
Hoping to watch you drip.
Or lend out your musk to warm daylight.
But I am saturated.
Like an arrogant fruit,
I dry myself under burning stars,
waiting for you to be swept away, and preserve what is left.
But you refuse to disintegrate,
Clinging to my skin.
Perhaps you are soaked in me;
I am the water and you are the resin.
Perhaps it is me who has to transpire,
And leave your accumulation behind.
But I am destined to wait for the moonlight;
The sun does not dare approach.