cupped in the palm,
my cracked lifeline lies
fractured with maybes.
splintered by could haves,
still-could-bes and never-wills.
what could have been righted
stays wrong. all along,
i have known
you can't retrace
the pigmented fate
or the feathered breaks
on heart-lines not your own.
you can cover the palm
in wax, and wishes,
watch the past spread smooth
and the present alter,
the future morph,
the life becoming clean...
becoming not your own.
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