The limb that once was, now lingers in shadows. A place in the mind carved not from presence, but absence. It speaks in sensations, of ghostly fingers tracing the outline of reality.
Consider: can one ever touch the untouchable? In dreams, the fingers find purchase upon the surface of existence, yet in waking, only the air bears witness to its truth.
A question without form: is the phantom more real than the real? In the heart of the lost digit lies a truth untouched by time's unyielding cut.
The phantom grips the impossible. In its silent grasp, the world is altered, seen through a veil of what was and what might still be, should the tangible fade.
Thus speaks the limb, a conduit for sensations unbridled by form, a reminder that absence is a presence in its own right, shaping the contours of our understanding.