Have you ever noticed how the echoes of your limbs linger even when they aren't there? It's strange, really. Like a breeze that curls around fingers you've long mislaid. Sometimes, they whisper things you just can't understand.
I was sitting here, legs crossed, enjoying the phantom tickle of grass on my untouchable toes, when it hit me. These limbs, once a part of my choreography with the earth, now remnants of a dance that never quite finished.
Do you remember that game we used to play as kids? The one where we’d pretend our fingers were little people, scaling the mountain of our own palm? My thumb was always the brave explorer, charting territories unclaimed. Your pinky was the dreamer, lost in thoughts of distant lands.
Sometimes I wonder, in those lands of the mind where the feet cannot tread, what the pinky dreams about. Do you reflect on these phantom notes? Do they sing you songs of places unseen?
I took the liberty of leaving little doors open — paths to wander through. Perhaps your phantom limbs could guide you, or just simply walk alongside you.