decorative faux books at my worst i am just waiting for you to enter. hoarding my nothing like a hope chest. here is a dust jacket where i gather unkept promises. the shelf, brimming with letter "o." meaning "oh no" & "oh please" & "open me now." sometimes i glue my lips shut for fear someone will ask me to tell them a story. really, the truth writes itself. i was made a conduit of searching. last year i had my palms read. her finger across my lines. she said, "you will. you will." then, back at home, i could swear i looked at my hands & saw no lines at all.