A Finger Traces Another

In the palms of hands

There are valleys

That carve

Into future, fortune, and favor.

A network of

Clinging

Nostalgia, latching onto the grasp of

The most present reality,

At. Hand.

Alone, these crevices

Are voilent

At best.

They direct fate

Misguided.

Misting stone with inkblots

Of white waters,

Barreling to the depth

Of the ocean,

This palm is lost.

Without

A partner,

And like a dance of fate,

A finger traces another

Giving peace to rapid waters

On a lost palm.