The Fortune Teller

The Fortune Teller


I stood barren on the rugged steps of the long lost church of my faith, crying for the words of my stories.
And it rained on me, heavy drops of the sky's liquid pain, branding my senseless skin.
I held out my empty hand, begging to feel again, praying for the burning stamp of love on my body.
I crushed my unfaithfull pen in my fingers, trying to write a story with my blood.

And then, I called out to the dying, hidden gods with my secret female voice, long hair shrouding my blueish lips.

I chose the deck, I delt the cards while kneeling on the pavement.
I dealt my love, painting my life on the ashen tiles.
I lay them down, my hands slowly dancing, covering the web-like cracks of my canvas.

And I wept... And I wondered, lost in time...


Would you hold my hands while I weep?
Would you stay beside me while the winds blow away my heart?
Would you cradle my quivering body?
Would you love the being I am?


And I longed, my beloved, for you to let me feel our bodies melting into one at the forgotten hour of a new dawn.
I would have carved your name in my soul, moaning reason away with my mouth hidden in the darkness.
I would have made your flesh my God and worshiped You with my hands and lips, trembling like a willow in the winds of extasy.
I would have turned our bed into an altar where I could sacrifice my pride in pagan awe.


Would you find a name for me?
Would you speak for me when I'm mute?
Would you cry the tears of my loneliness?
Would you keep my soul tucked in?
Would I love the being you are?


And while we slept, my beloved, I would have watched your eyelids tremble in our dream.
I would have hidden your calm breath in my ear, held it prisoner forever to tickle away my fear.
And as the sun rose on our faces, I would have smiled my joy, my beloved. While we drank our coffee on the balcony, I would have endlessly chattered all the small nonsense that is my life.
I would have laughed out loud all my shame and suffering, cleaning my soul for you.
And then, beloved, gleaming in the warm rays I would have tasted your salt.


I watched the cards arrange into a cross holding a dreaded figure in their midst. The Sun.
I turned my eyes to the sky and I screamed:
Why don't you turn your face towards me?
Can you not see my pain?
I took the card.


Would you spit on me if I erred?
Would you hit me if I cried my sorrow?
Would you hate me if I sang my glory?
Would you love the hope of me?


I would have forgotten you in my words, just for a minute of that night, my beloved.
I would have dealt my cards leaving the Magician out of the deck to show a new way for the High Priestess.
And in the end, I would have cried a tear just for myself.
And you would have banished me from your eyes and thrown my words back in your proud anger.


Would you help me if I fell from my path?
Would you kill me if I asked in agonising breath?
Would you leave me if I died crushed under the burden of my unwritten words?
Would I love the hope of you?


I always play my hand in the open, but I cannot win, my beloved, for you are always bluffing.
I cannot spin our life together on the wheel.
That morning, we would have stood on the balcony gleaming in ordinary sexual sweat, drinking our coffee like two strangers.
Tired of me, just another violin cord, now much too easy to carress and to string on your body.


What if in death we'd be together as life set us apart?
Would you be able to forget me, the still image of a girl frozen in time, that stumbled on you and broke her flight?
Would you have scorned me knowing there'd be no path for my redemption?
Would you have loved me then, when all the if's and the maybe's would have been churned?
What if when you lay your head on my shoulder asking for my stories, I would have spun my life for you, instead of chocking with mute love?
What if you would have basked in the morning Sun, holding my hands?
What if I would have caught in my web of future?

I stood on my scarred knees on the dirty pavement between the scattered, helpless cards.
I saw my life leaking through the cold blocks of ancient stone.
I watched my face in the muddy pool of tears, gathering broken pieces of words.

My beloved, there is no story anymore.