My hands hold the stories of my past,
but in nervous fits of anxiety, I tend to clench
my fists
and let my fingernails leave their mark
on the grooves of my calloused palms.
Still attempting to predict my future
through the absence of a fate line,
like a fortune teller whose crystal ball is as hazy
as San Francisco’s horizon.
Blind to my purpose I search for answers
in the constellations.

But tarot cards can’t define infinity
like the night does,
and I still beg for answers
from a fallacious psychic
who pretends to hold tightly to my desires,
searching the spread for distorted meaning,
determining longevity in the swing
of a gold chain,
bought with priceless family heirlooms.

Time refuses to see past obsession
and the world always changes its perspective
whenever the stars tell it to,
so set me adrift amongst the heavens.
Lost in the endless reach of a brightly
illuminated night sky
I fall for the oasis mapped out in the clouds
and dream of a future without worry.
Bobbing along with the swaying winds
I forget my past and find myself
astray in the ocean’s moonlit masquerade.