Shark tales and what-ifs

Is it,

when searching fingers grope blindly in the dark,

seeking out consistency and permanence,

or a banister,

to keep from tripping over loneliness,

Or is it something in the ceiling,

the curve, at the corner of your lips,

passing, at a tempting distance,

like a shadow on someone else's face.

Something,

that brings these crooked diagrams

to crawling down this star-crossed tale,

the salt of the earth,

so like the vinegar left out for strays,

letting root the thought:

it was either you or me,

and maybe,

you weren't the one to blame.