we are sitting on a roof,
hair billowing,
eyes darting
across the abandoned schoolyard
hoping some ghostly officers
won't scream at us to
come down from the sky
we are constant,
even when the inconsistent dreams melt around us,
when they tell us- god is a killer,
and the women are rotting in their brightly colored fabrics,
that the holy books are full of poison,
dripping angelic off the pages until they blind us for all to see,
that we are not muslims,
not christians,
nothing at all
except for empty bodies
connected in a rusted set of chains,
only eased by tears,
by rain,
by your bright eyes,
something almost holy