My small room
with its dim corners,
concealing my old typewriter,
from peeping eyes,
as I squeeze mine tight,
straining to see it,
just because I like the way it looks.

I am a stranger to myself
and a guest in my own home
at these times,
where shadows cast their spell.

Something touches my heart,
but I could never identify
what it was.

It just was.

These minutes,
before I fall asleep,
are laced with magic
that makes a curious child
out of me.
In my midnight nostalgia,
that comes by
every now and then,
to show its face.

But sleep always comes
just before I see it
and I never find out
what happens next.