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Phantom Limb of Time
The scent of rain on hot asphalt,
unearths a ghost of childhood summers,
barefoot and reckless.
A melody drifts from a passing car,
a forgotten soundtrack to teenage dreams,
suddenly vivid, almost touchable.
The chipped porcelain of a teacup,
held in my grandmother's frail hands,
now warms my own, a phantom heat.
These fragments,
shards of a shattered mirror,
reflecting moments that no longer are,
yet pulse with a strange, persistent life.
Is it a longing for innocence lost?
A yearning for the untainted promise
the future once held?
Or is it simply the heart's quiet ache
for what was, a comfortable familiarity
in the face of relentless now?
This bittersweet ache,
a phantom limb of time,
forever reaching for what cannot be held.
©bfa042125
Copyright ©
Bernard F. Asuncion
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