The feeling of something that isn't there, a thumb that knows the warmth of a sunbeam—the echo of its own heartbeat. Ticking. Tock.
Where does touch recall? Shadows flutter at the corners of sensory perception. Frayed moments playing a lullaby—patience.
Hands once danced with tender secrets, intermingling with cool night air, remnant sensations whisper behind layers of consciousness.
Edges blur, stitches unthread as thought eclipses form, wandering through licorice fields of elusive fondness, silklike.
Anticipation lingers like skipped stones across silent waters, ripples of forgotten laughter mingle with the darker hues of absence.
When they become memories—are they ghosts? Do they seek solace, where phantom aches linger satisfied yet unfilled?
Faded echoes of grasp; there’s no pulse. To ache and not to be. Questions arise without arms to cradle them:
What does it mean to be incomplete?
To touch is to beckon, to lose a fabric unwoven.
Not here yet everywhere.