psychic queen

I see her face. She sees mine too. It’s like looking in a mirror, just hers is more weathered… but that smile is timeproof. It’s the same smile that I have, and that makes me overjoyed because that means nothing can take that away from me.

I read her palms. They aren’t as smooth as they once were, but I know these palms well. In fact, I would wager any sir or madam, any amount that I could pick these ones out amongst a thousand similar hands. That’s because I don’t need to see them, I just have to feel the lines on them. Each one is as unique as a fingerprint. No, these lines are hers, and hers alone, and they tell a tale. Her tale. A tale filled with equal parts of happiness and sorrow… I don’t read her the sad parts though.

Truth be told, I only know what the lines feel like, not what they mean… but I like to pretend I do. I’ve done this since I was a child. She spoke a different language than I, but in those lines, we saw the same image. We saw love. Even though the readings were trite and rehearsed, she humored me all the same. Though I was just a child, her ears hung on every word I spoke, as if I were Nostradamus himself. Her eyes looked as if she was staring at something that was not of this planet. Completely captivated, she did not even dare to blink, out of fear that the aura she saw might not appear again if she did. Perhaps we were just accepting that what will be, will be, but we both believed this routine appeased the universe. And that’s all there is to say about that.

I check in on her when she should be sleeping, but she’s always up. She sits perched at the corner of the bed, hands folded neatly, her appearance meticulous in every way. From her perfectly braided hair to her colorful sari… impeccable.

Her hair is thinner than before; in fact, some parts are completely barren, but it is still the most beautiful silver I have ever seen. My mother’s silverware fails in comparison. No, to say the two were similar would be the biggest insult in the world. A silver like this can’t be made… it’s earned.

Her door is open; it frightens her to shut it. I gaze at her from across the hall. She appears to be in a daze, but as soon as my timid foot crosses her threshold, her ears perk up and are quick to hone in. She stares in my direction, but it is not threatening. No, she looks at me, innocent as a lamb, her eyes a dull shade of blue. She tells me to head back to bed. No words are exchanged, but rather just a dismissive wave of her hand, but it’s never in a rude way. No, it isn’t in her nature. I know she doesn’t know who she is sending away, but I refuse to truly accept this fact.

I want to read those dismissive hands, but I’m hesitant. I want to read the tale, but I’m scared the words won’t appear. I’m terrified that all I will feel is the touch of a hand, a hand that is ordinary in every way. When she dies, so will a part of me. It will be a depressing day. There is no euphemism that will ease this burden.

As I sulk off, I touch my hands together, but I am confused. They no longer feel like my own… but I know these hands. It’s familiar, and the tale… I’ve read this many times! This vessel is preparing to be shared by two, for true love can never be broken. I look in the mirror. I don’t see my smile; I see our smile. The rhythmic churning of my heart settles. I feel whole again.