Analysis of Floating/Driftwood

I’ve been drifting for days, floating.
Restless, like salt-battered driftwood that goes
wherever the wind pushes the waves.
Somehow, I always end up at your feet, awash
in foam on those white shores.
Tell me, will you drag me out and set me on fire?
It would be more than drifting aimlessly on the breeze.