The silence is atrocious, like you, like the
night. Your face absorbs light and then,
without greed but with the clarity of a
triumphant ritual, you absorb me. First my
head which you twist off with the crunching
of powerful jaws, then my torso which you
grade down like a loaf of bread.

   I am as worthless as the grains of sand that
hallucinate your face. I am nothing before
you, not even a shadow, the shadow of a
shadow.

   Finally, the tips of fingers begin to glow.
It is only the moon, the moon that rains on the
sand.

   And when I choose to obliterate every last
vestige of my self, not to die, for death will
take me only when it wishes — imperious
death! — I will tear the bones from my chest
and raise them above my head.