The universe spins, indifferent,
as the metaphysical accountant tallies souls
by the gram, weightless debts paid in star dust.
Your phantom limb dances on lunar tides,
caressed by cosmic winds,
tethered to galaxies unknown by threadbare whispers.
Absence, it seems, is the new black.
Have you tried resembling an outline lately?
It’s all the rage in astral fashion.
And here lies irony, spun in celestial yarn,
for the silent waltz of phantom limbs
is the only truth in this velvet void.