fickle.

Wrap that red string like a tourniquet 

around my beating chest to ease it down to a

thud

so it doesn't jump out of my throat 

when you slide your hand into mine.

The fickle fingers of fate have

a very weak handshake, limp and indecisive,

not ready to write things in stone,

fingernails bloody from bad habits and nail polish in negligence.

I sat down with Fate once, in a coffee shop in New Orleans. They ordered an oversized beignet, predictably getting powdered sugar all over the table. I watched as they dusted their hands off on a muted shirt worth more than my entire existence.

I asked them why we're just puppets in their game, and they just laughed, saying how misery loves company and the show must go on. 

Then they got up to purchase another beignet.

The next time I caught up with Fate was in a record store in Toronto. They carelessly flipped through the vinyl, shaking their head at the fading prints. The CDs were noticeably ignored. I asked them why they were here, and they just smiled. I would be hard-pressed to find someone else, anyone else, who would wear sunglasses, indoors -

during a blizzard.

The final time I chatted with Fate was somewhere in the Bahamas. They were lounging on the beach, soaking up the sunlight if only to make sure no one else on the entire island had any left. I sat underneath an umbrella next to them, watching them listlessly flip pages in their novel. I couldn't make out the title, but I didn't really have the courage to ask. If I brought attention to myself, all of that spotlight might trickle over onto me.

Wrap that red string like a flag of surrender

tie it to the ground so you don't get carried away

and fly.

Having your head in the clouds

might just lead to a stuffy nose.

The fastidious fingers of fate have

a very strong handshake, firm and just,

ready to write things in stone,

fingernails bloodied from another day of work.