Nebula1

by Denise R. Weuve

We place our palms together
not pilgrims in love
but explorers lost in a dark corner
of a sidewalk cantina.
The sea breeze is strong,
we are too busy mocking the fates reading
the lines outlining all
the days that blew us here, to care.
Your lines are so smooth, neatly
tucked in and drawn with precision.
Your head-line is so angry,
tired of calculating measured decisions.
The heart-line has given up
stopped begging for consideration
and begun to fade away
like an ex-girlfriend’s perfume.

What if you gave tonight this freedom:
drew a new heart-line
released your button up blue shirt.
I could touch you
run my palm along the curve of your tense jaw.
I could assure you nothing goes wrong
when you allow the fates their passion.
For just tonight I could deny what an inspection
of my palm reveals—letting the fates rule
leads to a wrinkled bed sheet of lines.

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