To sit in a nook.
Deeply scented of wood,
of dewy waters frosted
with spider webs,
tasting of nights
filled with half-moldering undergrowth
and mint.
Where old sweaters feel like
sleep against the cheeks.
And warmth of a freshly
vacated chair, deep like the leather cushions
of old cars, never leaves.
With only bare pages,
a scrawl of pen
dragged across
the stuff of dreams.

~Natalie Tsang