Solstices of the Mind

In the gentle caress of absence, a phantom whispers secrets of light.

Shadow grows long with the setting sun, yet my hand treads on untold paths.

The touch I no longer possess; the touch I cannot forget.

Each solstice brings illumination, not from the sun, but within.

Where does one find solace if not in the embrace of self? Roots unplanted, yet growth persists.

Reflect on the warmth of a limb that never was; how does absence define existence?

Footnotes of an Echo

Dance of the Phantom

The Lost Touch