What is it they say about winter dreams?
Tacky beads on my neck turn cool
Mingled with the chill of night.
You gave nervous, disapproving glares
When ghosts of Christmases past
Knocked on the thick wooden door-
Wreathed.
Your memories have become mine.
And so, I felt the fascination
The excitement, the fear,
The disgust.
I felt in me
Your exquisite helplessness,
So addictive.
I saw you from a distance,
Torn. A fragment of a moment
In painful slow motion
Enacted on your face,
Stretched to infinity.
But I was mute,
Equally helpless.
I saw you rooted
Unable to move
And then you retreated
Into yourself.
Unreachable.
I shall put away the wreath soon
And pack it in a box labeled
‘Ghosts’.
