Whores and Insomniacs

She twisted in the sheets. Some pale ghost struggling with the dirt on its grave. Flaunting her skirt. In gentle breezes. That barely suggested. The highs. And the lows. The mountains at her back. The horizon at her throat. Shaky daggers. Fumble with the ropes. As the noose falls into place.

Every word as if it were the last. Each face. A treasure map. But the sand is so deep.

She stayed up all night revising her itinerary. The time machine idling patiently. While she searched for the dots to connect. Crude outlines. Count the colors in her hand. As she opens her fists. Lets go. Of those absentee treasures.

Wearing him when she can. Being naked when life permits. The atoms. On her fingertips. Waging a war too small for her to see.

Doll heads in her hands searching for their torsos. Wolves sniffing in her empty baskets. No one fed.

She tries on the red. It barely fits.

Dreaming the math. In the fragile needles under her skin. She easily persuades him. That this life is one amongst infinite. Waking up. The ink still is there. The numbers are gone.

But she finds him. Still counting. Long after there is nothing left. Uncertain whether he is the whore or the insomniac. Or what the difference is.