The anatomy lesson

I remember you asking me, what if the only autobiography is a few stains
on the shower curtain and an online shopping history? Would I regret it?
As we stand on the crowded bus, my fingertips brush against the spine
of the book in the bag over your shoulder, trying to recall the meaning
of printed words we read a long time ago. After all, why should I trust
my hands less than my eyes during this disguised lesson in the anatomy
of inconvenient bygones?