It's not there, yet I can feel the chill run up the fingers where the hand once was. The echo of a touch slips through the air, teasing the edges of reality.
Some days, the gentle pulse beneath the nonexistent wrist is a comfort, a reminder that even what is gone can leave ripples in the fabric of being.
Others, it's an itch—one that defies scratching, nestled just beyond the horizon of skin and nerve, a phantom in a world that warmed and ignored.
Conversations with the absent: "Do you remember the sun?" "How does the breeze feel?" The answers are whispers, half-formed thoughts in a language forgotten by time.
Embodying the absence. Feeling the touch of nothingness. Imagining the warmth of a forgotten presence.