Melded memory

 Dirt finds a hideout in the caves of my fingertips. These nails are nothing but convenient spots to  disappear. Every piece from the time I've scratched myself, one grain from the tortilla I made last week,  history has attached itself to me like an unwanted hitchhiker on this human highway. 

I shake my hands with everyone and see my stories walk the bridge of our thumbs. All the times I've  touched myself: no amount of soap will wash away the memory of losing myself to prayers of your name. 

Hidden tales only time will tell, the faint scent of mirch and lassan rising from our grasp and your eyes  flicker, asking, realizing, glazed over with whatever imaginary confection you have hinted from my  world. 

I say nothing. These gaps between our words are a psychological trick to see who breaks the silence first  and gluts on air to fill the void with the voice and thoughts we think about a second time and hide away.  The almost words, on the last flutter of our eyelashes before our irises change direction and misdirection  is a favourite parlour trick. In that one instance, you are transported back to the time when you are awake  

early on a Sunday morning and you hope like hell mom won't pull the blanket off of you cause damn this  duvet is too warm, my hands too busy, and those shorts on the floor seem a sea away. 

One night, bottles and caps got the better of someone. My fingernails were blood-hungry clamps, holding  down someone who didn't know the strength of his heavy hands. Threats of thievery and flashing lights  chased him away, and I was a sapling in the wind.  

My bed has pillows only on one side now. 

My phone is empty of hollow contacts, grey spaces where reservoirs of unashamed fingertips sent their  stills. Of course, a quick refresh took care of that.