traced in the palm of my hand,
small faces,
lopsided circles,
sad mountains,
and windblown manes,
that I've carried with me
my entire life;
my silent mural
of things to come,
some may say.
The ridges run deep,
and catch whatever floats past,
apparently prove the strength
of my own heart,
and how long it will beat.
... But besides all that,
they don't do much.
Until your long, dark limbs
nervously danced past,
stopped for a few kind words,
and an offer to let me be
who I've always wished I could,
I never thought of them,
those lines I bear,
as a key,
a sort of map guiding me,
to where I should land.
As we sat,
whispering in a black-walled room,
I noticed that you, too,
have limp circles, emotional terrain,
and quiet little faces
lining your gentle palms.
And so familiar
are these shapes
and expressions,
I can only imagine
that they fit,
somehow perfectly,
into the grooves
of my own.
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