Phantom Limbs

It could be distant
Christmas lights
In the whiteout
Of fog and snow
Or the rumnog concoction
Burrowing fuzzy tendrils
Through this pickled brain
But I find myself
On the verge
Of wistful recollections

Dare I say
Even nostalgia

Stained memories
Of lost lovers and friends
Reopened
For the first time and
Having never looked back
Surprised to see them
Burning so clear

Forgotten gift exchanges
My right hand mates
And boastful toasts
Unwrapping before
My very eyes
While amounting to
A ghostly sensation
I have zero use for
Because
It doesn't change a thing