The Phantom Limb of a Lost Habit
By Saywisely
1 min read
Apr 24, 2025
My finger feels for absent gold,
A story that has now grown old.
My wrist is light, my face is bare,
I push up glasses that aren't there.
The body's memory, slow to learn,
Still waits for the object's return.
A phantom ache, a ghost of touch,
For something that I miss so much.
A story that has now grown old.
My wrist is light, my face is bare,
I push up glasses that aren't there.
The body's memory, slow to learn,
Still waits for the object's return.
A phantom ache, a ghost of touch,
For something that I miss so much.