There's something so fulfilling about these lines in my hands and fingers, something that the fortune teller will never understand or see in her crystal ball. Because things might be clear through the glass but it's all as fragile as it seems, uncertainties and calendars that fit so nicely into paper shredders.

And the way the tips of my fingers smell like the lines in a musical street performance. So please put some money in the hat that will never cover these disheveled strands that never seem to be complete, pulled out so easily during sleepless nights and wall-filled days.

And iron and metal, melted and grafted onto tender flesh. It's a way to keep touch away, keeps the temptation of brushing away water rolling down your cheek, soft and smooth and disallowed, forbidden, the complacency of brick walls and lines in the pavement.

Lines that fulfill.

And divining that is never divine.