Something ignites inside me each night

when the clock strikes twelve.

I dive into the world where it was only me,

my little world,

a cup of coffee with Mum,

deodar and oak trees next to my window, greeting me;

a walk down the stony path with my dog,

my own bookshelf—

Austen, Peacock, Plath, Wilde

crowding them mostly;

sweet-burnt memories of that night—

The fresh bruises fade in that voyage,

The bruises that thrum my chest all day long.

Except at this time,

when I go back to my world,

away from this synthetic Earth—

where the pale yet warmly painted stories still roam

through the electric wires of the smoky city.