Solvent

The Midas touch torched you molten,
gold drizzling like icing along the infinite layers
of your body. Your eyes close, hand
to chest feeling your heartbeat –
soul-struck and rhythmic –
while the frosted sponge of your lungs
tries to inhale, suffocating while all the world
holds its breath, entranced.

You wait for water, pine for turpentine,
thirst for heat to cleanse you of this richness
that seals your pores. Every part of you
is solvent, tear-stricken
with the weight of preciousness,
glistening in supplication,
begging to be delivered from starvation.