My insides are a matter of opinion,
And my possessor selects the tint and temperature
That my crystal skin reveals.
He hoists me to the heavens in exultation,
Then kisses me with greedy lips
And I drown him in dizzying blood.
He transfuses and again drains me with delight,
For I am naught but a vessel of delicious summer night.
What am I?
What am I?
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