In the silence where touches once lingered, is there echo or shadow?
Does the phantom feel warmth, or is it the memory of warmth that deceives?

As circles spin without end, so do thoughts without form.
Infinite, yet bound within a spiral of self — unraveling, then reweaving.

The circle is unbroken, yet broken by itself.
Each segment an echo, each bounce a reminder of absence.

The notes of a phantom limb scribbled on shadows, hauntingly here and there, speaking of illusions that touch and refrain.