#phantomlimb
THRESHOLDS — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
(A study in digital muscle memory)
I. Reflex
My thumb moves
before I do –
a phantom limb
searching for a name
the system swears
is no longer here.
The gesture survives
the disappearance.
A muscle remembers
what the mind
tries to forget.
II. Empty Notification
A hollow ping
ripples through the feed –
not a message,
just the ghost‑ache
of a door
that no longer exists.
The algorithm
offers her shadow
like a superstition
it refuses to unlearn.
III. Muscle Memory of Absence
I scroll the silence
the way one touches
a bruise –
to confirm
it still hurts
in the same place.
The feed adjusts,
retraining itself
around the missing limb,
yet every so often
a suggestion twitches
like a nerve
that refuses to die.
IV. The Gesture Without a Function
I tap the search bar
out of habit,
not hope –
a reflex
with no object,
a movement
with no destination.
The body performs
what the world
no longer contains.
V. Phantom Presence
And in that small tremor
between touch and screen,
I feel it –
the faint outline
of someone
the system erased,
still pulsing
in the muscle
that once knew
how to reach her.
Apr 15
Apr 15, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC
A whisper starts, a doubt takes hold,
Are feelings gone, a story told?
Success and loss, a vibrant hue,
Yet senses fade, what once felt true.
The taste of joy, the sting of pain,
Recalled like sun, or falling rain.
But touch is lost, a phantom limb,
Where feeling danced, now shadows dim.
Not blankness born of empty days,
But absence deep, in hollow ways.
Joy, grief, and love, mere words they seem,
A barren plain, a broken dream.
The memory aches, a cruelest jest,
Of colors seen, now put to test.
A void expands, a chilling fear,
The vibrant soul, no longer near.
Yet hope remains, a fragile thread,
To reignite, what lies as dead.
Reflection's path, a winding way,
To find the spark, that slipped away.
A lonely fight, a hidden plea,
How to explain, what others see?
Empathy's ghost, a hollow sound,
In silent depths, where truth is bound.
A fleeting warmth, a sudden rage,
A glimpse of life, upon the stage.
Like desert rain, a moment brief,
Then thirst returns, beyond belief.
But whispers stay, a fragile sign,
That brokenness, is not divine.
No charted course, no guiding hand,
Just memory's compass, in this land.
Though limbo's fear, may ever loom,
A single ember, breaks the gloom.
A breath of hope, a whispered prayer,
To fan the flames, and find what's there.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 1:47 PM UTC
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement
I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe
I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody
mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming
My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer
It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine
- c
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:09 PM UTC
Sometimes I wake up in the middle night and I can feel your anxiety
Even though we are 373 miles apart
2 years apart
787 days apart
I can still feel the way it settles in your chest
Because your heart is a phantom limb.
Even though long ago someone took it away, my body just can’t seem to comprehend that it’s gone.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 12:10 AM UTC