Josh steals coins out of sewers, long arms extending through the grates, and tells me he does not know what it's like to breathe without drowning. I imagine suffocation to be the worst kind of death, the burden of strapping on stones until you sink, a floating crown of hair. Tell Josh to shuffle the streets one night more. Tell him how I flare at the smallest glimmer. I find so many things in the stretch of shadow between stomach and wrist: kissed copper penny, thimble of water, old drain pipe. I want to be teetering on a sidewalk curb and not worry about the taxis around me. I want to be sent a cab and watch the driver pull away when he finds out no one's waiting for him, some sort of cruel awakening. The trick of disappearing is to seal the penny, uproot the drain, swallow the water but keep the thimble choked around your tongue. Count the pockmarks where needle almost tickled flesh, dented, dimpled, terribly still.