In the void where a finger used to caress the breeze,
there lingers the memory of holding nothing,
an invisible touch on invisible things.
How tender, the irony of an absent presence.

It gestures, it waves a shadow at the setting sun,
demanding attention, its ghostly fist clenched
in the battle against time's relentless snip.
Oh, the satire in how it still tries to grasp.

The ache of absence, they say, is proof it once was real,
a cruel reminder of a limb lost not in body, but in fate.
Is it envy or affection that lingers in this spectral hand?
Perhaps it dreams of hands that were never there.