And your quivering fingers held my hand and
The glint in your burning eyes
pleaded me to remember
Not that you are gone,
But that you were ever here.

That we shared the same earth,
That you and I have been sent
From a place we will not remember
Until we find ourselves back in it,
That our paths crossed and
Twined and ran into each other.

That we come into life
to act out the stories of our destiny
inscribed and coded in the loaded
lines on the inside of our palms,
in a language that makes sense
only on our deathbed,
to us alone,
and cannot be translated.

That our palms go with us
to the grave but
Our stories outlive time, and
That it is nothing
Short of a
miracle.