Sometimes she thinks about your hands.
Not in the way one may think about someone’s height or what size shoe they wear.
No.
Sometimes she thinks about your hands in the way they look- long and fierce, soft and gentle. How they hold pieces of you.
Your hands are part of you, in a way that describes how you feel and who you are.
Sometimes she thinks that your hands still hold the person you once were; in the webs between your fingers, and along the lines in your palms.
But-
The upper layers of our skin create new cells every two weeks. It’s been so much longer than that. Our skin no longer remembers one another. Parts of her can’t help but think that your hands still recollect the small moment you two had with each other- that they might actually remember her.
The way it felt to have your fingers intertwined with hers; and how she regretted pulling them away instantly after they did.
Are those recollecting feelings- hand in hand, skin on skin- actually memories for our bodies alone?
Sometimes she thinks about the way your palm pressed into her back while you hugged each other. Sometimes she thinks about how that very action expressed so many emotions: safety, protectiveness, strength, kindness, and affection.
Sometimes she thinks about what would happen if you put your current selves in that same position; when you held each other as if nothing else existed. Would your hands still touch the way they did? Perhaps, if they do remember one another. If not, would your hands remember how to hold hers and reach out for them like they did when she wanted them to, so badly?
Sometimes she thinks they might.
Sometimes she thinks she thinks- hopes- they are the only thing left that hold what was once between your souls.
