Oct. 1, 2007

the art of cosmic

I had never been so fond of anything astrological before. Sure I do believe in the moon and the stars and the signs, but never to this degree, where every omen is a message, and every coincidence some kind of key.

Lately I’ve been on the look out for signs – my horoscope in three newspapers (This is a good day for research!), messages from the Universe at 4 p.m., the lines on my hands. I even tied my behavior to the waxing and waning of the moon.

She knew palmistry, and she’d read my hand twice before. The first time, feeling her too close to me, both my palms open and sweaty in her hands, her face close, eyes squinted – was there a way I could have remembered anything else, aside from this intimacy? I held my breath in hopes that my hands wouldn’t betray me, wouldn’t let her read what I really felt at the time, and who I really felt these feelings for.

“See here,” she traced lightly over my hand, fingertip electric. “This is your heart line.”
I let my breath out slowly so as not to shake. Could she make out her name, so lightly etched over it? Could she hear this heart almost breaking out?
All around us, there were lights dancing over our heads, and there was music pounding against our ears. Maybe that was how she did not see, how she did not hear.

The second time I had my palm read, she pointed to lines at the sides of my hands. “This, this is what is,” she said, tracing again, the space she touched warm. “And, this, this is what should be.” I held my breath still again, so as not to shiver.
“One of the lines is short,” she noted.
It’s a miracle how I managed, “What does it mean?”
She looked at me, and I tried my best to look back, despite the storm brewing in my chest making it difficult for me to breathe. Maybe it was the heady mix of gasoline and of her so close.
And she said, “It means maybe you’re holding something back.”
I felt my heart stop for a moment too long. The time has come for my hands to betray me, finally.

The Universe intervened every so often in between, as if to deliver a point so obvious to our faces, as our messages met in the airwaves all too often, and I receive hers just as she received mine. “I think I sent out a message just as you did,” she said. “How cosmic is that?”
The word makes my heart jittery every time. Could it be that this could be something else entirely? But then, the cautious person that I was (in true Capricorn fashion), I carefully shielded mine from all hope, thinking this could be a heartbreak I would never recover from.
I was not that fond of signs before; I was prone to misinterpret some of them.

Curious how, when all this time my eyes had been wide open for signs, that the Ultimate signal came when I had them closed. That was how it came, that was how things came to a head – it was not the Universe that delivered the blow, but the feel of her hand pulling mine for cover, my eyes shut as they rested against her shoulder.

It was dark, but really, I did not need my eyes to see things any more clearly than that, the true message of the Cosmos, sketched with fire everywhere our bodies touched.

This was a connection sealed, and before I knew it, there I was, finishing thoughts she was just about to have.

*

postscript

This is not filling gaps.

This is you and me drilling new holes
in my heart, this soft fleshy thing,
your hand in mine carving something
out of veins and capillaries,
the space after a lot like the silhouette of your body
reclined beside me in the dark.