Thlasik Mumang

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’.

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