Party Time

I’m here but.

Not here.

Where is the hand I hold as we cross the threshold of the front door?

Where is the hand that holds out that glass of wine for me as I glance up in

anticipation?

Where is that hand at the small

of my back during scattered,

not so engaging

conversation?

Where is that hand balanced under the dessert plate?

Where is that hand on my knee for the long drive home?

I know where it is...

It is amputated from my existence over time....

No hand to hold-only a stub of false lies poking my mind of memories to torture my soul.

The phantom pain behind my low back-on the stem of a glass- on my knee and under the plate....CRASH!

The plate falls.

Glass breaks...right along with my dreams.