It is understandable that we have different fears.
There is nothing to forgive
Yet you scare so easy when I turn up at the door at midnight–
Looking for an alchemist—aching–
and promising myself.
Is gold, free of imperfection,
There are no open pores: how is the body breathing?
To your heavy breathing—
Eating away at the walls
I watch the paint curling
Changing into yellow embers
Desperate skin peeling—[you like a girl who craves pain—bites her own flesh; licks her own wounds]
Pushing up against the shingles of the roof,
escaping into small cracks like new born smoke.
There is more to be weighed up than gold.
I am here now
yet you are thinking.
Can I ask for you to heat up the lead?
Will that be forgiven?