She stared at her palms, turned them outwards as if in a trance
she pressed them against the glass panes,
the palm lines branching and crossing;
some faint like fingerprints, some etched deep like childhood scars that never faded,
she pressed them against the glass.
The cold traced the lines, travelling, speeding, branching, crossing
It extended up her fingers and left
a tingle, like electricity mild and gentle...lightning flashed!
She flinched.
They were dancing in the rain,
so soaked you can't tell shirt from skin their
clothes cling on to curves and edges like wet plaster.
She shivered, not from cold but from
nerves, from being so close, there was no distance:
they were shirt to shirt, skin to skin, not an inch
apart.
Her hands were in his, and on his shoulder;
his hand were in hers, and on her waist.
They fit, he said, they connect like palm lines like fingerprints like fingerprints like childhood scars
They fit snugly on the same wavelength, he said
and spun her in a waltz to rain's melody and thunder's bass which fell perfectly into
step with the singing in her heart.
She smiled.
Lightning flashed! The sky shook in a silent blinding scream.
The storm blew over yet she remained staring blankly,
her palms she pressed against the glass as if in prayer
but rain and storms they never did last, and
the song went out of tune.
