I crossed my fingers
Yes, for luck.
A fragile superstition
Intertwined between doubts and desires.
As if fate could be persuaded
By the quiet folding of hands.
But love is a maze,
Meant for the braves.
It sketches its boundaries in shadows,
Thin as a breath, trembling like echoes.
There are lines meant to be kept,
For the heart to stay intact.
Still we cross them,
As if we are really lucky and brave.
Softly at first, like dusk slipping into the night,
Then going deeper where every warning flickers like a dying streetlight.
In there, the dark learns our names,
And every step hums haunted and forbidden games.
Then we tell ourselves
That luck will follow,
That it will cradle our defiance,
And it will blur the edges of consequences.
Turning things into something
Almost merciful.
But luck is a fleeting companion,
And love remembers the lines we crossed.
When our fingers finally loosen,
And our hearts start to crumble.
That's when the illusion falls apart,
And we stand in the quiet aftermath.
Crossing fingers,
Crossing lines,
The music is ruined,
The moments gone.
And we realized that we did it
For one last time.