matching

bemused
she marvels
at how the lines in their palms just seem to
match
of their own accord

bemused
he studies
the crease between her brows, smooths away
the signature
with a callused finger

and their hands catch
once more

she has never felt so
certain
of her own self-worth
has never
felt the kiss of wet grass upon her skin
and welcomed it so readily
has never let herself
just breathe
and accept
and allow one to come so close
to her

and their hands have caught
each other

and she finds it funny
how he doesn’t drink coffe
while she inhales it like the first gulp of oxygen
after a chlorine-infused plunge
and how he can’t carry a tune
but sings along with her and the radio
anyway
mostly unabashed
while she can’t let herself be rubbish
at anything

yes
oh yes
she finds it funny
how themselves they contradict

but even so
she thinks, bemused
she has welcomed the kiss
of wet grass against her skin
she has let this ragamuffin
come so close
close to her

and somehow
inexplicably
the lines in their palms just seem to
match.