Apostrophe to the Apostrophe

Small floater, you stay above the fray, a wink at nothing's nod, a raised brow watching p's and q's, a selfless mote between I and m, a little horn of plenty spilling plurals, disdaining the bottom line. Unlike your twin relatives—groupies of wit and wisdom, hangers on in the smallest talk— you work alone, dark of a crescent moon. Laboring in obscurity, you never ask why, never exclaim, never tell anyone where to go. Caught up between extremes, you are both a turning away and a stepping forth, a loss and an addition. You are the urge to possess everything, and the sure sign that something is missing.