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I rub my palms together
a meager ritual to erode the lines.
You can slide your throaty vibrato
along the desert of my palm now,
without worry of the effect on my fate.
I've ground down the confines of destiny,
spread it thinly over the whorls.
I wonder if I could capture the friction
of your manifesto; keep the brash tone
in my fists, use it to shadow box.
Or maybe I would encase your
insults in the fleshy part of my hand,
close my fingers over your throat
until the moment your breath is the only
audible sound -it is then that I will resuscitate
a whisper to blow a torrid kiss,
a smack across your face,
peal the flesh back like a blister.