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Whendy keeps dancing like she doesn't have bones
while Nic films her from all angles. It's Wednesday
somewhere in the world, and the walls are quite blank
except for an oddly cast shadow.

Thursday is one of those Anything Can Happen days,
slow to push its way up through the morning cold.
We move heavy and our breath hangs with ghost words
imprisoned by cold air.
"Sometimes it's supposed to be lonely..." she says,
carrying her broken suitcase to the subway platform.
The train didn't come on time, and we're running late
behind the headlines of the day.

My wrists are still burning from bleeding in reverse.
"I'm tired of the city," I offer, untruthful. "I'm tired of
not sleeping and sliding away." She exhales clouds,
answering "Sleep is for the dead."

I wish sometimes I could pray. It seems to comfort
those who do it, fills them with something greater
than anything I can force into my lungs or veins.
I wish I could meet God, even,

ask him why we're so different, and yet, so the same
except some of us can exist without blood or sleeping,
and others can move like they have no bones.