I can’t tell if I’ve quit biting my nails, because I still like the touch of them between my teeth. I don’t know if that counts.
I’ve begun wondering about loyalty – how one smokes a single brand of tobacco for seventy-eight years and still hums for its vapor like the first time, how the tongue doesn’t wander for a taste outside the mouth it lives in. What shackles us in habits?
We are the tangled bobbins spit from the spool, returning to the battered arms of a machine or the frayed arms of a shirt caught by runaway trucks and skateboard wheels.
We are a fine balance, holding each other in place with fibers of our shoulders, French-braided by the universe. Simultaneously tempted to pieces, to catapulting in more than just cardinal directions; pressured to clench fists, to banish any idea of holding hands.
My nails grow, tingling to touch, telling me: if there is space anywhere, we are there.