The Scent of Your Breath

Forty

Cold floor. Doors barred and shutters lowered. Lights out. My naked body lying here. Wind on the hills. Rain. Sun. Then rain again. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Three days. No remorse, no kindness, no emotion. The absence of the ghosts. The sense of having attained perfection and omnipotence. Omnipotence. Omnipotence.

Then the darkness comes and grips me by the arm.