To a Fellow Hosteller

Creeping under the bed, he touches the cold surface of the iron leg. Dust settled all around him, the spiders could be seen dozing in their corners. He peered from the shadows through his red beady eyes and stared at the darkness. It was a night like no other. His companions had left, there was no more music, neither was there any words being spoken. It was quiet, his grave would have had more to look forward to. He crawled out from beneath the bed and stared at the barren wasteland which was once a mess of books, clothes and cigarette butts. He saw faint traces of them being there once but all that had been left were rejected pieces of cloth, writings on the wall and a ghostly light falling through the window and onto the old table. The gusto building, awe inspiring charts were still there and the closed doors and rainbow slippers stared at him from the great heights they were stuck on. The wind knocked against the window, but nobody was there to open it. The stuffiness was settling around him and somehow he knew that his nights would never be the same. Someone used to lie on top of the iron bed and hum soothing tunes from time to time. A flute would come out of his pocket and then there would be sweet kisses in the air as the melody escaped from this stick of his. He had this smile on his face that could never really be figured out. This small creature, alone and in the dark felt warmth on that night with the thought of that smile. That Secret Smile