Mothiur Rahman
Mistletoe
Don’t you know my name? I softly asked.
She shook her head and gazed wide.
It’s Abdul, I said.
As in Abdullah? No. Just Abdul
feeling dry rot already in the air.
What does it mean? Nothing
I pleaded. I’m still me you see.
The guy you kissed under the lingering dark
when the heat of our mouths mingled.
Your breath, Pringle edged, soured by wine
still floats in me.
I’ve never kissed a... here she struggles.
But you didn’t see, you kissed a phantom
with no history, colour, politics or shame.
I kissed her again, willing it to be the same.
Page(s) 98
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