Monday Sunday

I was born on a Monday
I'm guessing it was brisk and windy
She was born on a Sunday
Big thunderstorm that night
I'm prompt and punctual and smile when the big hand strikes the 9
She's late and discombobulated and can't read analog clocks
I whisper around arguments and sidestep sticky questions
She smashes through molasses traps and hammers down hypotheticals
I bloom in a sea of people, drinking them in like ambrosia, letting ichor fill my veins
She shakes and sweats and shrivels until I'm sitting next to a raisin-girl
She can run and jump and breathe, truly breathe the afternoon air
And scale great pines and race the wind and throw jacks with great rock walls
I can mold my tears and my demons into haikus that make my grandfather weep
I can cram information into all the cracks and crevasses of my mind and challenge men and monsters alike
But I cannot run with the wind
Because I am Monday
And she cannot pen down the moon
Because she is Sunday