You imagine hands cradling you,
Lulling you into soft oblivion—
If you had that,
The real would seem useless,
An echo,
An extra limb.

But if you lacked it,
You’d claw at the real,
Cling to bone and breath,
Hoping the world
Would mirror your mind.

And guess what?
I’ve always had those arms—
In my head.
They held me when no one did.
Made me brave.
Made me distant.
Standoffish.
Steel-willed.

Still...
I wonder
What the real thing feels like.
Would it anchor me,
Or make me unravel?

Does that longing make me greedy—
Or just human?