His eyes scrape over mine,

faith in the hands that see for him.

Rhythmically shuffling his prophetic cards

I ruminate on my question,

eyelids shut in concentration.

My mind brushes from thought to thought,

memorizing every interaction:

a text he didn’t need to send,

a door he didn’t need to open 

a minute-long conversation passing each other by…

The deck cracks on the desk, 

like a gunshot to my fantasies,

startling me out of my stupor.

His well-oiled fingers slice through the deck.

3 neat piles taunt me,

“Pick One” He tests

But I’m drawn to none.

I supposed there would be tangible auras,

hypnotizingly, agonizingly clear

Threads of Fate

spun by Clotho herself.

But all I see 

are reflective, well-loved papers.

How is a painted card,

going to reveal my romantic future?

I try to discern which one his eyes drift to,

but I meet a stone wall

His facade delicately composed,

unyielding to the plea plastered on my face

My hand settles on the far left pile,

enticed by the crumple on the cards’ corner.

The only imperfection on the pristine stacks.

I try to untangle his steely gaze upon

the dog, the wolf, the moon staring up at me.

His voice murmurs, 

The moon card of illusions, uncertainty, secrets, 

An unusual card,

He’d supposedly removed from the mix,

But fitting all the same

Maybe the cards were prophetic after all