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You are in my hands, freshly squeezed and free from debris, pure as abalone shell and quiet as the night. The cool breeze combs your unruly hair— I bring you back to a straight line, a configuration only saints walk. My feet have lost the hardening of life's callus formation. My lungs expand to a new surface space; they reclaim their lost ampleness and absorb the invigorating air that spins within my own physical machinery. The soul finalizes my own funeral pyre. Let this body burn, and let the flame soar to new heights. Save the head that stores my memory— who see within and survive an absence of who they were.