Master of stealth and disguise, he shoots away,
leaving behind an inky alter ego.
Once I perfected his art, I became a true master—
ducking and weaving, obscured by a cloud
of something like ink that surrounded my head.
Was it grief or something less worthy that sent me
scuttling off in a flurry of sand, leaving
my shadowy image to shake hands and smile,
to wake and to sleep, untouched by the weight of the deep?