Fine wine,
Whose taste isn't quickly or easily acquired,
Vivid roses,
Whose subtle fragrance imply potent joys,
Perfect rubies,
Whose flawless form glorify even stone,
Dying sun,
Whose rage won't be quenched, though it's doused in the cold black ocean of formless dreams:

All of these promise me peace and meaning...
Yet I am frustrated.
The color of my "lover's" lips begets the dull glow of my hidden wrath.

"I am content," I say, without so much as to fake a smile.
My yearning never ended,
My days become dreams,
And my nights become the far-red background noise of the universe.

You didn't give me this rage.
You didn't cause me this harm.
You didn't give me this pain,
Yet you, like me, are the unjust object of blind scorn.
I choose not to give you pain.
I choose not to cause you harm.
You didn't give me this rage.

So I give you wine, roses, and rubies,
In hopes that my heat might become your warmth.