My right hand sketches
the semblance of a soul
marred by the loss of you
It feigns awareness and ease of pen
because it has nothing else to do
It's momentarily detached from pain
and traces letters in the sun
whilst undertones of timorousness
betray the outer pretence of fun
My right hand knows nothing of it's owner
for numbness was essential for its survival
like a child or an adult loner
who tries to overcome a heart that crumbled
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