my fingers are a chalky white

and the lines on your hand say you are lost.

I remember thinking that one day
there would be a line that would be easy to see,
easy to spot, to cross and leap.

That line has never been clear,
I've had to drag it myself
here and there—everywhere.

  I'll skip my fingers
    over anxious hands
      and push my tongue
       through out this land.
      Its grains of sand
     that marks our time,
   shadows outside
disguised the lines

          even this line has spots,
empty
          blocks of thoughts
                   when?
                                                       was the line lost?