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We will be reading each other’s palms by candlelight again. The yellow light of bedside lamp to see the cracks and crevices folded over and over with each grasp, fist, slow bending. The down blanket will fall in its own folds. Feet rubbing together as the four-poster bed frame boxes us into a shadow on the wall. We will be falling asleep slowly to the sound of rain and music. Pillows piled high under heads heavy with sleeplessness. The feeling that something is missing, that our predictions could come true. The study of the life line alone could take hours. Our untrained etchings, desires. The need to touch the soft center, stroke the fingers. Our extending elements and ringed ring fingers held to match, clink together waiting for super powers to emerge. As if we had medicine to put in each other’s mouths, rub on the body, sicknesses to heal that we didn’t know we had. We trace the fingerprints, make maps of mixed up metaphors, trying to cross and cross again. Wax drips, palms curl against each other. Calloused conundrums cannot hide the history and future.
