I have constructed a house from the keys of your old piano. I have bitten at the heels of your mother, begging for news. I have prayed over the faceless ice of your door because you are no longer home. I have superimposed my eyes onto the bonnet of your car. Helpless. Animalistic. Spent. Aggrieved with my hands upturned and my tongue in a straight line to the sky. I have unfolded your thank you letter and used it to clean my wounds. I have conjured strange gods to chase you through abandoned towns. Smashed. Wasted. Neck-deep in debris. Lurid. Shredding each phase of the moon to pieces with my teeth.